We Who Are About to Die
by DojoGhost
Summary: With no reason to go on, Sweeney Todd trades his razors for a bayonet, hoping to find death on the battlefield. But sometimes when you most want to die, you end up finding your reason to live. Alternate ending; Sweenett. Co-authored with Saime Joxxers.
1. Lies

**Disclaimer:** "Sweeney Todd" characters property of Stephen Sondheim, Dreamworks, Warner Bros., et. al. Used here without permission for entertainment purposes and no profit is being made.

Any resemblance to elements of other works of fan fiction (e.g., words, phrases, scene elements) is entirely coincidental, since DojoGhost simply can't read everything that's out there. No plagiarism intended in any respect. To the best of my knowledge, this plot is my original work.

**A/N:** Heh, this is up fast. eh? Well, it's been sitting around for a while, so here it is.

I've changed the date from the conventional 1846/7, based on the general Victorian vagueness of the ST film.

**This is a new multi-chap and is not in any way, shape or form connected with my other two fics, "When Sweeney Met Lizzie" and "Born with the Devil". **It's very, VERY different from either of those.

I figured I'd get this going now since I'm going to be gone for a while taking care of a severe family emergency.

**Acknowledgments:** To Todd666, whose mention of the American Civil War in her fic "I'm the Only One" (when ARE you updating that again, by the way? ;)) made a light bulb go on in my head...

...and to Pamena, who thought this was a great idea when I ran it by her. So if this is terrible, blame them :D j/k

* * *

**1**

**Lies.**

**June, 1862.**

"Come here, my love…"

Imbued with dripping scarlet, baring his teeth in a mockery of a grin, his hard eyes glinting in the light like black marble, his face bathed in the infernal orange glare of the open oven – like a fiend out of Abaddon, he stalked her, the mere force of his fury backing her against the wall in abject terror.

She hadn't known it was possible to love anyone or anything as much as she loved him in this moment.

The look on his face when he'd learned the truth – the look of a man irredeemably shattered and ruined and fallen; the anguish in his eyes, the mourning in his voice as he'd murmured _"You lied to me"_ – the wail of sorrow she hadn't known he was capable of making…All of it had broken her heart. _"Yes,"_ she'd said, _"I lied 'cause I love you…I'd be twice the wife she was…I love you…"_

She'd confessed her love to him before, of course, but now the words were desperate: she had to reach him, _right now_, or the one last shred of the life she'd so carefully crafted would be torn away forever. She had to make him understand. Surely he hadn't forgotten what they'd been to each other these past few months – all their long sleepless nights, lost in each other, reveling in the secret of the dark life they'd created, drowning in their need for comfort, pleasure, oblivion – surely nothing could wipe all that away. He hadn't longed for his Lucy _then_ – she was certain he hadn't. He couldn't have. Not when it was Eleanor Lovett's name he would roar as if he'd shake the walls down with it…not when he'd murmur things in the darkness that nearly drove her mad, not when those shining obsidian eyes had gazed on her as though –

But here he was, closing in on her with an open razor in the hand that beckoned her to him.

"Can we still be married?" she whispered, hoping the reminder would get through to him, shake the awful madness from his expression. They'd spoken of marriage before, she wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise; he couldn't have forgotten…He was right on her now, only a breath away, still grinning that malicious, feral, terrible grin; and the hand that held the blade rose up –

With a solid _chink!_ that echoed coldly through the chamber, the knife hit the stone floor. But Lovett was still cringing as Todd reached out his hands…

He grasped her arms and buried his face in her neck, murmuring "What's dead…is dead."

Then his hands were at her waist, in her hair; his lips were pressing heated kisses to the skin of her neck, shoulder, traveling across her collarbone to nip lightly at her throat, and she was too stunned at first to react.

"Nellie," he growled, kissing along her jawline. "Don't tell me you were frightened of me, pet."

She smiled, breathless. She couldn't speak for astonishment. He nuzzled her neck again one more time before pulling back just enough to look directly into her eyes, whispering her own words – "Life is for the alive, my dear" – before smothering her mouth with his, kissing her deeply, drawing an enraptured moan from her and offering his own in return. His fingers played with the fastenings of her dress; she laughed inside as she gripped both sides of his collar and tore the top few buttons from his shirt.

He broke the kiss and smiled down at her. "Married," he muttered.

Her eyes closed in blessed relief. "Yes, my love…"

"Of course we can," he said hoarsely, his lips tender now as they glided slowly over her face. "Why couldn't we?"

She tried to reply, but all that escaped her was a deep sigh of ecstasy. She was faint; she grasped Todd's shoulders to prevent herself from collapsing and yet still she felt as though she were falling…or flying…

"The sea, my dear," he was saying, wrapping his arms around her waist and walking her clumsily through the cavernous room, towards the door and the stairs…"your sea…I'll take you there, and we can be married…"

"Yes," she breathed…

"…and we'll enjoy each other every night to the sound of the sea out our window…"

"…oh, love…"

They reached the base of the stairs, and he suddenly swept her feet out from under her, lifting her into his arms, and carried her, never ceasing his kisses and caresses and whispers of their future…through the shop, into the parlor, placing her lovingly on the settee.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, my love?..."

She was losing her mind from the feeling of his hands roaming her body through her clothing, her heart threatening to burst asunder from perfect bliss. Not because this was the first time they'd been this close, this intimate – it wasn't – but because this time was different: everything she'd dreamed of and hoped and longed and worked so hard for was becoming her reality at last, and she wondered if she could bear it. Her hands twined themselves in his hair as she practically moaned, "You know I would…"

He chuckled – that dark, low, almost coughing sound that she loved so much. "Would it make you happy, my pet?..."

She felt him smile against her collarbone as his lips and tongue captured every inch of flesh not covered by fabric, peppering little playful bites in just the right spots because he knew her so well…she felt the sticky, stinking residue of the judge's blood smearing on her skin, coating both of them now; but she didn't care because this blood was the sign of completion, the guarantee that the miserable existence she'd been trapped in for so long was finally over and done, everything and everyone that ever stood between her and the man she worshiped and the life she knew they could have – all of it was done away with forever; and now here he was, making her own blood race in her veins…God in heaven, she couldn't take much more…She panted his name through her ragged, ever-quickening breathing, begging him…

Then he lifted his head, locked his cold eyes onto hers, and rasped, the savage grin still plastered on his face: "I love you, Nellie."

Everything stopped. Her racing pulse, her gasping breath, her clinging hands – all of it simply, abruptly ceased – then released again in a cry of joy that tore from her very soul, and she pulled him to her again, holding him fast, trying to stop herself from sobbing in happiness.

This was perfection. This was paradise.

He cradled her, rocking her gently, hushing her as if she were a frightened child and calling her all the pet names she so loved to hear. "Don't cry, my dear," he said. "I love you."

She managed to pull herself together enough to mutter "I'm sorry…I never…I love you so much, Sweeney…"

He pulled back and regarded her face, allowing her tears to flow unimpeded, not attempting to wipe them away. "I know you do, my sweet. You have nothin' to apologize for. Now. We've made quite the mess tonight, you and me. People will wonder where Bamford and Turpin have disappeared to. I don't think I can stay here."

His pragmatic words felt out of place in such circumstances; but perhaps for this very reason, they jarred Nellie back to reality. "…Yes," she nodded. "Of course…you're right…"

"I only need to clean myself up," he said, rising from the sofa and moving towards the door, "and I suggest you do the same. I'll be back in a moment."

When he reached the door, Nellie called out to him; and when he turned she said – slowly, relishing the words now that she knew he would welcome them – "I love you."

He only grinned again, and left the room.

She moved mechanically, as if in a dream, forcing herself to believe what had just happened with every breath, every step she took down the hall to her room, where she located the valise she'd prepared in the event of a speedy escape and began tossing various items into it with trembling hands. Her absolute worst nightmare had come to life: he'd found out the truth, learned what his Lucy had become, learned that his own hand had destroyed her…he'd discovered Nellie's deception – and _still_ he chose to be with her. Because he understood her reason. He understood her love for him, because he loved her in return. Enough to make her his wife. And she would be such a good wife to him that he'd never recall he'd ever had another.

_He loves me,_ she silently rejoiced, as she quickly moved to the washstand and sluiced the blood from her skin_. He loves me…_

The words resounded in her mind over and over as she carried her bag out to the parlor to wait for him, until she realized she was muttering them under her breath and crying again from the impossibility of it all, from the feeling of hope and happiness she hadn't felt since…

Ever. She'd _never_ been this happy. Hadn't known what the notion meant before this night.

She was roused from her musings by her heart's response to the sound of his step at the parlor door – the sound of a new life with the man she adored more than anything. That was all she'd ever wanted; everything she'd done had simply been a means of achieving this…

He was standing in the doorway, smirking, pulling on his gloves, not looking at her. She stood and swiped the last of her tears from her cheeks as she approached him. "Ready, dear?" she asked, beaming at him.

"Yes, I think so." His voice was hard.

"Where we goin'?"

"To hell, the both of us," he answered quietly. "Until that day arrives, however, I'm not sure where I'll be – "

And he turned on her a look of such malevolence and hatred that he might as well have punched her in the face. Startled by this abrupt change in his demeanor, she backed away from him a step.

" – I'm only sorry it can't be here, to watch you hang."

For a sickening moment, she thought he might be serious – the way he was looking at her, his face a mask of undiluted wrath and loathing. But his sense of humor was a dark one; he was more than capable of making a macabre joke from time to time, as he'd proven by engaging with her playful banter when she'd first told him of her plan for the disposal of his victims. Surely this comment was like that. So she laughed.

And soon learned that was a horrible, horrible mistake.

He stepped towards her, sneering, his fists clenched and trembling at his sides as though only just barely managing to contain himself, to keep from striking her. "Did you really think I meant it, Mrs. Lovett? That I'd take you away and marry you? That I love you? Did you?"

Shock and confusion rose in her now, rooting her feet to the floor. He was advancing on her but she couldn't move…When he was only two steps away he reached out and seized a bottle from the bottom shelf of the liquor cabinet and hurled it within an inch of Nellie's head, screaming _"Did you?!"_ The impact, the sound of glass bursting against the far wall, jolted her into reality; and she began retreating from him again, just as she had in the bake house not half an hour before, her hands groping behind her for support –

He looked as though he could kill her with his bare hands, without so much as a blink.

And still, even in her terror of him, she told herself he was only play-acting, for some strange reason known only to himself. This couldn't be real. She'd fallen asleep on the settee waiting for him, she was sure; and this was a nightmare. The other things, the things he'd done and said to her, telling and showing her that he loved her, _that_ was real…

"How does it feel, my dear?" he said, his voice like velvet. "To be deceived?"

Her heart lurched. "Sweeney…what are you sayin', love?…

"Not terribly pleasant, is it?..."

Still moving backwards, she stumbled on the hem of her dress – gasped harshly, managed to catch herself on the back of the armchair. Her limbs were going weak. "Come on now, stop foolin' with me…" _He can't mean it, not after all that, not after he said all those things –_

"I'm an adulterer because of you," Todd was snarling, the words seething between his teeth. "_My wife is dead_ because of you…"

She swallowed hard, her breath coming rapidly now, making her lightheaded. A creeping awareness that she wouldn't be able to dupe herself much longer was slowly dawning in her mind…" You don't really mean this –"

He stopped moving suddenly, his face giving no indication that he'd even heard a word she'd said. When he spoke again it was with the tone of a revelation hitting him: "Everything…everything that's happened here, everything I've done…is because of _you_."

Nellie's heart was breaking and racing and liquefying all at once, torn as she was between despair and a will to live and a desire to die, if he was serious about all this. When he took his next step towards her she found enough breath to gasp, "Sweeney...what…what're you doin'?..."

"I'm leaving, Mrs. Lovett."

And somehow, something about those words – his tone, or his expression – told her, finally, that he _was_ serious, that he _did_ mean it, every bit of it.

Her first reaction, when this truth finally sank in, was that she couldn't let this happen, not when she'd held her every desire in the palm of her hand scant moments ago…she had to fight, to hold on to it…

"I know you remember," she said. "What you said to me, how you touched me, all those nights…I know it meant somethin' to you; you can't deny it, Sweeney Todd…"

"Poor, deluded Nellie," he said softly, shaking his head, his voice dripping with mock pity. "What did you think that was? Love? I thought I made myself clear many times. I thought we had an understanding."

Her back hit the bookcase abruptly, painfully, making her draw another sharp gasp; and before she could slip away Todd had an arm on either side of her, his hands gripping the bottom shelf, trapping her, his breath hot on her face; and even now, like this, she trembled with longing to have him so close.

"I never loved you," he hissed, chewing on the words, relishing them. "Lusted after you, yes. Wanted you, yes. But love, Nellie? _Love?_"

A vicious grin was on his face as he spat the word: _"Never."_

She felt as though her insides were collapsing.

There had been a time when she'd felt safe to weep in his presence – when (and she was not imagining this, no…she would hold on to this; this had been real) he would gently brush her tears away. But now, she felt the sting in her eyes and fought to hold it all in. She couldn't allow him to see, not anymore…

"What are you gonna do, then?" she choked out. "Kill me? Get it done, then. You'll be doin' me a bleedin' favor."

A slow smile spread across his features. "Oh no, my dear. I'm not gonna soil my hands with you any longer."

She blinked – she hadn't expected this. "Then what – "

The glee on his face was positively diabolical. "I did want to kill you – oh yes. I wanted to cast your filthy lying carcass into your own goddamned oven and watch you burn and hear you scream. But then I realized…death is too good for you, Nellie Lovett. I want your punishment to _hurt_, you see. Death would hurt, of course – so much the pain would drive you out of your senses. But it wouldn't last. And I want it to last, _pet_. I want you to suffer with every breath you draw for the rest of your life. I want you to grieve every day for what you believed, for an instant, you could've had. I hope you don't hang after all, you know, Mrs. Lovett. I hope you live many, many years, because I want your every moment of existence to be an agony, you heartless, soulless…"

His face was twisting with emotions Nellie couldn't read. His voice trailed off, and he drew a shaky breath before going on.

"That is the worst punishment I could possibly inflict on you, and the best. The sweetest revenge – one that endures forever." He pressed himself against her then, and reached a hand to her face, his fingertips lightly drifting over her cheek. "Just think, my dear," he said. "I'll be with you always. You'll never escape me."

Suddenly he grasped her hair close to the scalp and pulled viciously, forcing a strangled cry from her as her head tilted back – snarled "Take this with you to your grave, Nellie Lovett" – and kissed her, hard and long and brutal; and she responded desperately, still hoping –

And then he was gone.

Left her trying to stand on shaking legs, which gave out after a time; and she crumpled to the floor, numb at first, for a long while.

The wail that finally ripped from the very core of her being dissolved at last into racking sobs. She didn't know how long she lay there, wrapped in her own torment, before grief so wearied her body that she fell into the welcome oblivion of sleep.

**************

He was hurting. Badly. The pain was like a ball of molten steel in the hollow of his chest, where his heart should be.

He loathed himself for it, for giving her this power over him, to wound him like this, so deeply, as if he were bleeding to death inside. It wasn't just Lucy – and he hated that; it _should_ have been just Lucy, _all_ because of Lucy, of what she'd become, of what he'd done to her. But it wasn't. It was also because bloody Nellie Lovett had deceived him.

It was his own foolish, damnable fault, he told himself as he stalked through the London night, with no destination in mind and nothing in his possession but the clothes on his back and the cash he'd hurriedly shoved into his pockets. He'd left everything else behind – just marched out the door and into the blackness without looking back. He simply didn't care anymore. He laughed to himself when he thought that Barker hadn't really died after all, had he, the naïve jackass? Sweeney Todd, menace of London, was just as stupid, just as gullible – he'd opened himself up, trusted someone, because he thought she understood him. He'd let her in, showed her who he was and who he was afraid of becoming and who he wanted, despite himself, to be; trusted her with his past and his present and God almighty, nearly with his future. He'd stripped his heart naked and exposed it to her. Allowed himself to respond to her care and affection, to indulge his own need for comfort, a companion, an equal.

He'd let himself grow fond of her. It did him no good to lie to himself about it. He'd grown very, very fond of her indeed.

All when he'd sworn long ago to never, _ever_, not under any circumstances, allow any of those things to occur with anyone again.

Not even, he knew, with Lucy, had she been present and lucid and sane when he'd returned. Even when he'd thought she was dead and longed for things to be different, in the silence of the long nights when he was alone with this thoughts he knew a life with his Lucy couldn't be as it had been before. Too much of him had changed. Even had he not determined to destroy those responsible for her fate, even had he not become the murderer his Lucy would never have wanted…he still would never be the man she had married; wouldn't have been able to give his entire self to her, as he had before.

As things were in reality – he knew now – the best he could have done would be to pay for his wife's treatment in an asylum. A good one, the best he could afford – not like Fogg's…What did Lovett think? That he could have returned to Lucy in the state she was in?

"_Don't I know you, mister?..."_

Her final words haunted him. He supposed they always would. But what did they really mean?...She may have remembered him in some way, but what of the rest of her mind?...No, Lucy had never been a threat to Nellie Lovett's amorous ambitions. There had never been a _reason_ to lie. But now his wife was dead because of it.

Better off out of her misery, perhaps? Like all the others?...Todd knew he would need to tell himself this for the rest of his life, if he were to stay sane himself.

_If only you'd told me the truth…_

When he realized where his thoughts were heading, he eradicated them with a fierce shake of his head and a grunt of frustration, indulging instead in the memory of those final moments: the fear in Lovett's voice, the way the light drained from her eyes when she realized what he was doing. A corner of Todd's mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. He'd wanted to hurt her – oh yes, wanted to give her a taste of her own poison; and he congratulated himself on his great success. Ingenious, it was, leaving her with memories to rot her soul away…Judging from the cry that had reached his ears as he'd marched away from Fleet Street and everything it had ever meant to him, her anguish would be intense indeed.

Whatever was left of his heart, whatever part of his spirit Nellie Lovett had claimed, was calcifying now, a hard scab of bitterness forming over the wounds she had inflicted.

But as he'd told her – he wouldn't be there to witness her fate. He had no desire to continue breathing the same air as that traitorous, treacherous Jezebel. He would have to be satisfied with only the knowledge that her lot wouldn't be a pleasant one; but perhaps that would be enough. Aside from that, he needed to get out of here – clear of the city, if not the whole bleeding country – before the law caught up with him, and to scrub himself clean of the corruption that London represented: the pollution of men and systems he despised, yes; but his own pollution as well. He was sickened with himself: he had been unfaithful to his wife. Never mind that he hadn't known; never mind that he'd been duped. Never mind that she wasn't the same, that her mental state would have easily released him from the marriage bond in any court of law. He'd still done a thing he detested, become something he despised, no better than the rest of the philandering scum that so disgusted him. He had to get away from the place where it had all happened.

And so, thus reviling himself, he directed his steps towards the docks.

The stink of the Thames grew strong in his nostrils before the rundown buildings of the waterfront came into view. Automatically, Todd headed for the first building with lights and noise pouring from the windows, and strode through the door.

It was like walking into a reeking wall: the odors of tobacco smoke, stale liquor, and rank human sweat mingling to create a dense, noisome miasma that hit Todd square in the face and then closed around him like a foul blanket. Men's voices assaulted his ears in a drunken, raucous babble; he averted his eyes from the disgusting displays of cackling whores perched on sailors' laps.

Surely he'd been doing the world a favor these past few months, freeing it of the pestilence called humanity.

He stood just inside the closed tavern door, casting his gaze about. He wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for. How did one find the right man to talk to? The last time he'd caught a ship, he'd floated up to it on a rickety raft. He wasn't accustomed to this kind of business transaction and hadn't the first clue how to go about it. Now, if Lovett were here –

Todd's scowl, already deeper than usual, twisted into a grimace of revulsion – chiefly at himself, for even so much as allowing her existence into his thoughts, the filthy...

There really wasn't an effective word for her. His mind went blank.

Breathing deep, taking in the noxious fumes of the public house as if in self-punishment, Todd strode to the bar and stood, leaning his forearms against its sticky surface, until the barkeep took notice of him. The barber was on the point of ordering a gin; but the thought of that liquor nauseated him somehow, and he requested a tumbler of rum instead. When it was placed in front of him and the server was turning away, he spoke up.

"Barkeep."

The man turned: a jolly-looking chap he was, with a ruddy round face and a ready grin, and enough stubble on his chin and trailing down his throat to make Todd itch to take a razor to him in the most strictly honorable way.

But then, he didn't have his razors anymore. For the first time, this hit home to him, and he felt an unpleasant pang in his chest. But he'd be bloody damned if he was going to go back _there_ and get them. She could sell them, for all he cared. He wished he could somehow get a message to her: _Dearest Nellie, please be assured with the utmost confidence that you may now, at last, sell or pawn my razors without qualm. As I will not be coming back this time, there is no reason why you should cherish them in anticipation of my return._

"Ar, need somethin' else, friend?"

Todd gulped his rum, savoring its burn. "I need a ship out of here."

The barkeep shrugged jovially. "Where to, mate?"

Todd paused a moment, then answered with a morose shrug of his own. He really didn't care, as long as it was far away from merry old sodding England. "S' long as it's not Australia," he finally replied.

The barkeep refilled Todd's glass without being asked. "Always plenty o' ships hailin' outta here, you can find pretty much whatever you like." He regarded the barber with narrowed eyes then, as if appraising him, assessing his intentions. "You've the look of a man what's got nothin' to lose," he commented sagely.

Todd's eyes left the rum and flicked up to the barkeep, who now leaned forward conspiratorially and said, "What is it, mate? A woman?"

Todd's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together almost painfully. A woman indeed. His wife, the indirect, unwitting, innocent catalyst of his suffering so long ago, his unjust exile, the death of so much of himself – it had been a man's inordinate lust for a woman that had caused all of that. He'd often wondered, these past few months, what it must have done to Lucy when she discovered that awful truth. And now she was gone. By his own hand – but not by his own fault. Another bloody damned woman was to blame for _that_, and so much more…

_my lover, she betrayed me; my love, she lied to me –_

To wash those last thoughts from his mind – the recollection of Eleanor Lovett sharing his bed, and worse, his very real and occasionally intense affection – Todd downed the rum; to beat the memories away he slammed the glass onto the bar. "You have no idea," he answered, with a bitterly ironic smirk.

The barkeep just nodded, slowly, empathetically. "Always a man runs to the sea, there's a woman involved. One cruel mistress to another, eh?..."

He moved to replenish the glass again, and Todd let him. "You know there's a war on in America?"

Todd's brows knit. What was this buffoon playing at, suddenly spouting news of the world?...

"Wars are interestin' things, y'know," the barkeep went on, a suggestive, cryptic note in his voice. "They can provide…opportunities for men like you. Men what got nothin' left, but ain't the suicidal type. Lots of things can happen on a battlefield, my friend. You got no control. You just step in front of the line of fire – shot hits you, misses, it's all up to luck, if you get my meanin'. "

Sweeney Todd had never, not for the fraction of a second over the course of his entire life, so much a contemplated getting involved in a war. As Benjamin Barker he'd been too much of a pacifist; now, he simply couldn't see himself as a military man. Too much taking orders, too much kowtowing to superiors, too much camaraderie in the ranks.

Still…

The barkeep was right – uncannily so. Todd _didn't_ have a thing to live for: Lucy was gone, Johanna was gone. There was no restoring his family. Turpin and Bamford were gone. There was no more justice to seek.

_Nellie is gone –_

He gulped more rum.

_What's dead is dead_, he'd told her_…Whatever we once had, my Nell, is dead…_

_Her_ absence from his life was the bloody best thing that had happened to him in a long while, he told himself. But the fact remained that his entire impetus for existing at all, was no more; and all his weary soul desired now was complete oblivion. Yet he wasn't the kind of man to end his own life. That was a coward's way out.

_Lucy had tried it –_

He cut off this thought at its root and shook it away. That was a different case. Forcing his focus back to his own situation, he found that he wasn't sure how to go about conducting the daily affairs of life while wanting nothing more, the entire time, than death; and yet always unable to turn his own hand against himself. Nor did he wish to subject himself to the hangman's noose – give the courts the satisfaction of triumphing over him.

Any thoughts he'd given to how he would live after dealing with Turpin –

(_we could have a life, us two_)

– were now null and void, and he found himself pondering the barkeep's words. Combat might suit him, he thought: an opportunity to indulge the ongoing craving for bloodshed that only seemed to be increasing in the wake of recent events, and the possibility of his own annihilation into the bargain. It might meet several of his needs at once.

The barkeep was nodding, apparently sensing that Todd was warming to his counsel. "See that bloke over by the window," he said, jerking his head, "sack coat, slouch hat, smokin' a pipe?"

Todd turned, spotted a man matching the description, and nodded.

"That's Danny Blake, takes a blockade runner into the Confederate States every three months. Just gettin' ready to ship out again. Looks like you're in luck, my friend."

Apparently feeling that his purpose was served, the man turned and moved off to the other end of the bar, leaving Todd to contemplate his course of action.

There was nothing left for him.

Anything could happen in a war.

Todd tossed some cash onto the bar, then rose and slowly made his way to the window where Blake was seated, intending to offer his services as a member of the crew.

He had some experience, after all.

* * *

**A/N:Please review...**I won't be able to respond for a while but I'll be SO happy to see them when I get back, and I promise I'll reply when I can :)

Merry Christmas/happy holidays to all :D


	2. Mementos

**Disclaimers:** See Ch. 1.

**A/N:** I'M BACK!! :D My trip was a sad one, as many of you already know. I lost someone very close. Thanks so much to those of you who expressed concern and condolences.

Writing is my therapy, so I'm glad I have this story to keep my mind occupied. Thanks for sharing it with me. :)

I apologize in advance for this chapter - no Sweeney :( Honestly, I couldn't get him in here. The chap was long enough as is. I promise there will be lots and lots of Sweeney in chapter 3, though. Think of this as The Chapter of Nellie Lovett ;)

As for the M rating: I just want to make clear, for those of you who might be new to my stories - I don't write smut. I do write love scenes, but they're not explicit. If it's smut you're looking for, you'll have to go elsewhere :) I'm being safe by choosing an M rating; and often the violence in my tales, while not always spectacular, also justifies it.

One last thing - you should know right off the bat - as this story takes place during the American Civil War, there will be references to slavery. Such an institution is despicable; however, it is a fact of history and was a driving force behind this particular national conflict. You will encounter characters who defend it, others who condemn it, and still others who don't give two flips about it. Such people also existed in history, and it does no one any good to pretend none of this ever happened. I intend to portray all of this as realistically as possible. If a character expresses approval of slavery, that does not in any way, shape, or form reflect the views of Yours Truly. If such references are going to bother or offend you, you might not do very well with this story. I'd hate to lose you but the warning is only fair :)

**THANK YOU THANK YOU** to those of you who read, reviewed, and subscribed! I got 10 reviews for chapter 1 alone - the most reviews I've ever received for a single chapter! You make my day!

* * *

**2**

**Mementos.**

_Nellie Lovett's eyes opened._

_She was lying on her right side, square in the middle of the mattress. It hadn't taken long after her Albert's passing for her to take over the entire bed, sometimes sprawling clean across it. On this particular morning, she woke to find that she'd somehow thrown all the blankets to the floor sometime during the night, and absently acknowledged that they would have to be picked up. Though she couldn't think why. It wasn't as though there was anyone about the place to care what her bedroom looked like. She certainly didn't._

_She yawned and rolled onto her back, throwing a forearm across her eyes, though it was just before dawn and the room was still dark. Tuesday today?...No…Wednesday. Three more days to go until Sunday, when she could close up shop and have a day off._

_Now _that_ thought made her chuckle out loud. She could've closed up shop and had a day off every day for the past year, at least – certainly for the past month or two. No one ever came in. Every bloody day was Sunday at Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium._

_But…_

_She sighed. The routine was the only thing that kept her going: dressing, making her bed, opening shop, rolling the dough, baking the pies. Finding things to stuff the pies with, now that did provide the occasional adventure…She hated it, the routine, the useless, pointless formalities. They drained the life out of her, what little of it she had left. But they were what got her out of bed every morning._

No,_ she thought, slowly moving her arm to her forehead and letting her eyes drift open, gazing at the dirty-grey, peeling ceiling. There was something else that she lived for._

_There was him._

"_Benjamin," she whispered, as she had every morning for the past fifteen years._

_Every single morning for a decade and a half, without fail, her first thought on opening her eyes was _He's coming back today. This will be the day. There'll be a pardon, or he'll have escaped, or…But he'll make his way home, somehow, some way. _That was why she'd never allowed his old shop to be rented. It had to be ready for him. She'd never told her husband her reason for putting her foot down so adamantly on that issue; but he'd sometimes caught her staring at the ceiling in the morning. He'd never asked her why, but she had a feeling he knew. Though of course she'd only whispered the barber's name in the silence of her mind back then. _

_Not for a moment did she believe the charges against her upstairs tenant. A more straitlaced, God-fearing, honorable man could not be found in all the world. When Turpin started courting Barker's wife after the barber had been shipped off, Nellie had started developing very particular suspicions…And when Lucy Barker had come home from Turpin's...party that one evening…Well, that just proved it. Nellie had never liked the judge; there was something underhanded about the man, and she'd heard some evil rumors murmured about him in the snatches of conversations she'd caught on the street, and in her shop. But this…_this_, sending a guiltless man to that horrifying, godforsaken place, all to gratify a moment of lust, was the definition of abominable._

_And there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it. Even when Barker's lawyer had called her and Albert to the stand as character witnesses, and their testimony had gone unchallenged by the prosecution, she knew it wouldn't do any good. Oh, the mockery she'd had to sit through: an endless parade of liars and hypocrites condemning Barker with false testimony. She knew they'd been paid off. She wanted to strangle the lot of them. Every once in a while, after Barker was deported, one of those witnesses or a member of the jury would appear at the shop, and she'd smile and serve them and pray they would choke to death on their dinner._

_She had such terrible fears for what Barker would go through in prison. Every morning, noon, and night she would silently, fervently petition God for him: _Keep him safe, keep him well, let him be all right, bring him back home._ But as the days stretched into months and months rolled into years, and he hadn't come back, and Albert died and left her with nothing but debt, and meat had gone so costly it might as well have been gold and she'd been forced to make ends meet through any means necessary…_

_The only prayer she uttered anymore was that name, her eyes uplifted to the sooty ceiling, where his voice and his steps had once resounded. "Benjamin…"_

_And when he did come home, she'd be waiting for him. _She, _no one else. Not his wife. She told herself repeatedly that his wife was dead, and painted that lie white by convincing herself that he wouldn't want to know the truth._

_Since her Albert had passed on, every few Sundays – when she had the time to fully devote to the task – she'd mounted the stairs to the old tonsorial parlor, pushed open the door, and entered the cold, silent space, all the more desolate because the man who held her heart had once occupied it. She'd kept everything just as it was, down to the crib in the corner and the picture frame in the bureau drawer. She thought he might like to have some reminders of his little girl when he came back. After taking in the feel of the place for a few moments she would begin to move, as quietly as possible, across the room towards the huge window, the only source of light, its filmy panes filtering the already-weak sunlight, stretching it even thinner. She would kneel, run her hand over a particular floorboard, slightly more worn than the rest, pull it up, and reach into the niche below – reverently, as though reaching into a holy tabernacle. Drawing out the rich wooden box secreted there and pulling off its soft, faded cloth cover, she would scoot back against the wall and sit cross-legged, holding the case on her lap for a long while before raising its lid._

_She never failed to shed a few tears at the sight of the gleaming metal nestled in its red velvet lining, as she ran her hand over the seven folded razors, touching what he had touched. She would always indulge in admiring them for a while before taking from her apron the silver polish and the soft cloth, removing the first knife, and lovingly polishing its chased silver handle, rubbing the cloth devoutly into every line of the pattern, like an acolyte polishing sacred vessels. She would talk to him sometimes, her Benjamin: "I'm takin' care of 'em for you, Mr. Barker dear. They'll be ready for you." Oh, how she longed to place them in his hands…That cherished dream was the one thing that kept her from selling them. She well knew that she could've gotten a pretty price; but she also knew the money would run out eventually, and then she'd have nothing: she'd be without her only memento of the barber, and _still _without funds._

_So she'd sold herself instead. On occasion._

_It always took hours to clean the razor handles to her satisfaction, time flying blissfully by unaccounted; and she always smiled softly when, at the end, she placed them, in their case, back into the floor niche, and set the concealing board back in place. How he'd loved those razors. He'd taken such pride in his work. How pleased he would be that she'd cared for them all these years. _

_On this Wednesday morning, Nellie Lovett recalled that she'd fulfilled this precious duty only three days before. But at the time she'd felt somewhat numb about the whole thing; and now the memory of it didn't bring her the hope it usually did. Today…today she felt less convinced. The words she told herself felt empty – forced and rote and meaningless, like everything else._

_Like polishing the razors, they'd become just another part of her routine._

He's not coming back,_ a voice in her mind told her now. _Ever. He's gone. He's probably dead. Innocent, tender-hearted Barker could never survive in that colony, they'd tear him to pieces after a few days. Or the forced labor would kill him. Or the…things they might do to him…might drive him to suicide.

He's probably been dead for years.

_The ceiling went hazy; her breath was hitching. She didn't know why she tried to hold back her tears when there was no one to see…So she gave free vent to them, finally acknowledging what had been creeping up on her for some time now, no longer fooling herself. For the first time in fifteen years, she whispered "He's gone…he's gone…"_

_A long while passed before she realized she'd lost track of time, and she managed to pull herself together enough to slowly sit up, plant her feet on the floor, and make her usual preparations for the day. She dressed listlessly, did nothing with her hair (she never did anymore), left the bedclothes on the floor where they'd fallen, and shuffled through her parlor and down the short passage to the pie shop. Still asking herself why she bloody bothered anymore (and not coming up with a satisfactory answer), she procured some moldy onions from the bin under the counter (why wear out her knees any more by storing them properly, in the cellar?), plucked up a knife she'd carelessly left lying about on the counter the previous day, and began to chop. _

_The routine. It was all that kept her going._

He's gone,_ she told herself again, this time without tears. She supposed she'd run out of them. Only a sigh escaped her, deep and resigned._

_And then the shop bell rang._

_She probably should have been startled – there simply were no customers anymore; and at this hour of the morning…Either it was a thief or a murderer (wouldn't be getting much in either case, she thought), or perhaps an old…acquaintance (thought she hadn't seen any of them in quite some time). But she hadn't the energy to react to this abnormal occurrence. She only glanced up, ready to tell whoever it was to take a seat and she would be –_

_Her heart stopped._

_She gasped, nearly cutting herself with the damn knife._

"_A customer!" she cried – but something in her knew it wasn't a customer. She thought it was his bloody ghost, he was so white and gaunt and his hair had gone wild and his eyes were so black and cold – _

_Maybe it wasn't him after all. Only the cruelty of wishful thinking. She'd certainly imagined seeing him before, many times, in the market or passing by her shop window. But oh, how her heart started pounding again, as if beating for the first time in her life, when she approached this man and touched his shoulders to draw him inside._

_It couldn't be anyone else._

_On the very day she'd given up hope, there he was. And time hadn't changed a thing in her. She was still so deeply in love with him – perhaps even more so now – she was nearly in pain from it. _

_She didn't tell him she recognized him, not right away. He hadn't greeted her, hadn't called her by name. Perhaps he was hoping she wouldn't remember him so he could protect his identity. Perhaps he'd forgotten she even existed. But none of it mattered. He was home now, and she was there waiting, and she would take care of him; and perhaps now…perhaps now…_

***************

Nellie Lovett's eyes opened.

At first, as her mind fought through the fog of lingering sleep, she registered that it was Thursday, and that the day's preparations needed to be made.

As consciousness began to assert itself, she realized she was lying not in her bed but on the hard parlor floor, behind the settee, with the worst sick headache she'd ever had.

_Bloody hell…_She'd only had one glass of wine last night –

_Last night…_

And suddenly the feeling that this was just another morning was ripped away, and it all came crashing back on her, the truth of last night, in flashes, scattered images: his smile, his touch, his voice –

_I love you, Nellie_

_your sea…I'll take you there, and we can be married…_

_I never loved you_

_what's dead is dead_

"Oh God…"

It didn't feel permanent, somehow. Some part of her wanted to believe that if she could get herself up off the floor she'd find Sweeney in the kitchen watching the kettle boil, or readying his shop for business when she ascended the stairs with his morning repast. But she knew otherwise, and she shut her eyes against that knowledge, feeling the tears rise in her all over again. This was worse, so much worse, than the fifteen years she'd lived alone with only a thread of hope to sustain her, because even a thread, however slender, was something to hold on to. But now – to go from everything to nothing, in the space of an instant – to watch her very life taken away, but by bit, before her eyes…

Her hand went to her mouth, stifling the sobs that shook her. How she was going to go on from here, she didn't know – for now, she simply gave herself over to the grief, because it was all she had to give herself to.

Lost in her sorrow, she heard only vaguely, as through a screen of wadded cotton, a series of thumping sounds – rattles – shouts – a great crash – heavy feet moving quickly. Her ears registered these, but she gave no thought to them. They came from the street, she supposed – the noise of life carrying on, the outside world going about the business of the day, knowing and caring nothing for her little private loss. This was market day…she'd be on her way this moment, if this were any other Thursday morning…The thought of it, the ordinariness of such a thing, made her laugh bitterly, till even she couldn't be sure whether she was shaking from laughter or tears…

Only as the sounds of scuffling feet grew louder, mingled with men's rough raised voices, did she realize they were taking place _inside the shop_ – drawing closer all the time. This shocked her, made her catch her breath, and she opened her eyes, listening. _Oh, God…_she'd given no thought to the law…

…the law…

"_If he escapes, he'll go to the law…"_

"Toby," she breathed – she'd forgotten him, too –

Through the space beneath the settee, she saw the curtain that separated the parlor from the shop, flying aside, revealing at least three pairs of identical shined shoes and dark trouser hems that could only belong to London constables. "No one in here," a gruff voice sounded. "Cullen, take Darby and have a look about the place. See if you can find that bake house entrance. Allan and Fields, you go up to that tonsorial parlor and see what you can find."

"Yes sir," came two earnest voices in answer, followed by more scuffling and the appearance of more uniformed feet crowding into the parlor. Nellie estimated there must be about seven or eight men, including the four who'd just been sent off. She held her breath: she couldn't move from this spot without being seen, and it wouldn't take a long search to reveal her whereabouts. Her heart was hammering a furious tattoo against her ribs – she couldn't understand this reaction; she no longer cared what happened to her, had no reason, now, to go on living – wished, in fact, that her lover's curse would be denied and that she would die in short order rather than endure years of the memory he'd given her. But something in her protested the fate of a prison, a noose, the shame of a public death…It was fear of all this, she supposed, that stirred up the panic in her, pressing into action her base instinct for survival, overriding her longing to eternally forget.

"She and Todd may have escaped in the night, Sergeant Walters," said one of the men. Walters made no reply; but Nellie watched a pair of feet she assumed were his, moving slowly across her new rug, followed by another man, and another…the room was quiet now, as though the officers themselves were straining their ears, the only sounds the muffled footsteps on the floor above. The sergeant stopped – turned, as though gazing about the room – then deliberately directed his steps towards the settee –

"_What're you doin'?!"_

When _that_ voice broke the silence, Nellie could not stifle her gasp; and she was certain Walters had heard it, because his feet stopped moving, facing her hiding place dead on. But that was of less importance to her now than that voice, so familiar, so dear, twisting a painful knot deep in her throat –

"_Oi!"_ the voice continued, _"I said what're you doin' in here? There's nothin' in here, it's all downstairs, I told you!"_

And then two small feet came pounding through the doorway.

"Restrain him!" Walters shouted, and instantly two of the officers turned and the progress of the smaller feet was stopped – indeed, they were lifted some inches off the floor, frantically kicking the air while the voice of their owner grunted and demanded release.

"Adams!" barked the sergeant. "I thought I made it clear that this boy was to be kept outside until I ordered otherwise?"

"Yes sir," came the shaky reply; "but he's a quick one, he is, slippery as a bleedin' weasel – "

"Let go!" the boy screeched. "I told you she had nothin' to do with it, she was forced to it by that barber, he must've threatened her life or – _gerroff me!_"

"Oh God, Toby…" Nellie mouthed the words, not daring to put breath in them. "Don't, son…"

"Shut him up!" Walters commanded; and the unmistakable sound of a hand striking flesh met Nellie's ears –

That was enough.

She was on her feet in less than an instant, crying _"Take your hands off him, you filthy bastards!" _

She barely had time to take in the strange tableau before her: two officers, the nearest of whom she supposed by his more decorated uniform to be Walters, standing gaping at her in shock; two others by the door, one on either side of her Toby, gripping his arms so hard she could see their fingertips digging into the lean muscle beneath his shirt, the shirt she'd had to sew two new buttons on last week –

The five of them were frozen like some bizarre sculpture, their eyes fixed on Lovett; and she knew there was no going back now. They had her.

"Mrs. Lovett, ma'am!" Toby cried, suddenly thrashing free of the constables' grip with the help of some well-aimed kicks and hurtling towards Nellie, who automatically held out her arms and was nearly knocked backwards when he threw himself into them.

"Toby," she muttered into the lad's hair, holding on to him as if for the last time – because, for all she knew, it _would _be the last time – and her heart broke as he clung to her, because he'd seen what she'd done and yet here he was, defending her, protecting her.

Like a son would protect his mother.

The three lower-ranking constables moved forward, but Walters' hand shot out, stopping them.

"Toby," she said again, struggling to make her voice clear and steady, for his sake. "It's all right, son."

He shook his head frantically and pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, and that was when she noticed the changes: dark shadows ringing his eyes, now wild and too bright; a pallor to his complexion, a gauntness that seemed to have conquered his features literally overnight. "Oh God," she breathed, stroking his unruly hair, unable to keep the tears from welling up once again. "What've I done to you?..."

But Toby's eyes, turned away from the officers of the law, widened; and his head shook almost imperceptibly. "I told 'em it was all him, I told 'em you're innocent," he said – but while his tone was that of a young, frightened boy, his expression was fierce, serious and stern as death itself; and Nellie knew he was putting on an act. What his purpose was, she couldn't guess – protecting her was part of it, yes; but there was something more, something new about him…

Seeing the bake house – charnel house, more like – hadn't driven the boy insane. He was too strong for that, Nellie supposed. But it had done something else to him – it had made him hard, aged him. It had done in a single instant what the workhouse might have done had he been there another eight or ten years. A horrible thought began forming in Nellie's mind – an idea that he might be planning to take the blame for her, make out that _he_ was Todd's apprentice and accomplice, and she merely an unwilling victim of the barber's threats and manipulations. But he didn't believe her innocence himself – she could see that in his eyes. _"I know,"_ she felt him telling her: _"I know, and I'm going to keep you safe anyway."_

They had promised each other, after all.

Did he know that only twelve hours before, his dear Mrs. Lovett had chosen the fiendish barber above him, went looking to silence him in the most unimaginable way? Had he heard them, seen them as they sought him out?...

"I'm so glad you got away," she said, and felt she'd never meant any words more truly in her life.

With the exception of the times she'd told Todd that she loved him.

"Sergeant Walters…sir…"

Four officers were entering the parlor now, all of them green as corpses and trembling, one weaving a bit as he walked and slowly dragging a sleeve across his mouth. Nellie thought she recognized him…yes, Officer…Officer Byrnes. Nice man, she thought absently. He'd stop in every few days to cheerfully order pies he thought were composed of pork. Nellie recalled the tingle she felt every time he walked in – the thrill of having a policeman there, oblivious to what went on beneath his feet; the titillating rush of getting away with it all…

"Yes?" Walters prodded, turning to face his men.

The constable's voice was barely a whisper as he answered, "It…it's a slaughterhouse, sir."

"What is?"

Two of the men briefly lifted their eyes to the ceiling, while the spokesman weakly nodded his head towards the shop, indicating the bake house stairs. The fourth man – Byrnes – was apparently too weak to respond and simply leaned on the doorframe.

"All…all of it, sir. The blood upstairs…and…down there…" his voice was beginning to quaver so much that he was barely intelligible… "The door was wide open, sir…and the – " he swallowed hard – "the bodies of His Honor and…it's a massacre, sir. It's inhuman – "

He broke off, and the ill-looking Byrnes turned and rushed out through the shop. A moment later Nellie heard the shop bell clang harshly as the street door was flung open.

Walters whirled on Nellie, his expression not so much accusing as assessing – reserving judgment, perhaps?...Might she expect mercy?...

"Bring the sailor in here," the sergeant ordered; and one of the men who'd restrained Toby immediately rushed out. _The sailor,_ Nellie thought, her hands still resting on Toby's shoulders. _They can't mean –_

The three men who'd investigated the premises were shifting their weight from foot to foot and glancing about nervously, as though fearful that the very walls might swallow them alive. But Walters was staring hard at her, almost willing her to look at him. Oh, how she'd love to face him down; but she had a feeling that was what he wanted, and she resolutely kept her eyes averted, focusing instead on Toby, who seemed still to be trying to communicate something to her wordlessly –

In less than a minute the dispatched officer returned, and in his wake was Anthony Hope.

_That little sanctimonious bloody milksop,_ thought Nellie, recalling regretfully the time she'd suggested that Todd cut the lad's throat to keep him from taking Johanna away. It was the only advice she'd ever given that the barber hadn't heeded. How pleased he would be now, she thought bitterly, to know that his decision allowed the existence of one whose testimony could easily seal her condemnation.

The sailor wasn't looking at her. Walters said, "Mr. Hope. Will you tell us once more the event of yesterday evening?"

"Of course, Sergeant," Anthony said with a nod, and proceeded to give his account – blandly, matter-of-factly, in much the same manner as he might rehearse for a courtroom. He told everything succinctly, from the beginning – his rescue of Todd aboard the _Bountiful_, his ongoing friendship with the man, his desire to marry the ward of Judge Turpin, the barber's willingness to aid in this goal. He concluded with his leaving Johanna Turpin in Todd's parlor – this was where the information became new to Nellie – while he went to fetch a carriage. Not finding one after a brief search, but anxious to take Johanna out of the city, he'd returned, planning to bring her with him as he searched for transportation. But he found his betrothed frozen with terror in the barber's chair, and the walls and floor thickly coated with blood. Forcing himself to overcome the shock of such conditions, he seized Miss Turpin by the wrist and took her with him to the police, where to the best of his knowledge she still remained, for her own safety, as Todd had attempted to kill her and was still on the loose.

All Lovett could think was that all of this must have occurred while she and Todd were…otherwise occupied, and neither of them had noticed the sailor's hasty return to, and departure from, the upper floor.

"I've been giving statements and depositions all night," Hope was saying; and indeed, he did sound exhausted.

"Yes," said Walters. "Now, Mr. Hope, can you tell us if the woman you see before you is the same woman you frequently saw in the company of Mr. Sweeney Todd?"

Only now did his eyes shift in Nellie's direction – but he did not meet her gaze directly. "Yes," he said quietly. "That's the lady there. Mrs. Lovett. I never knew her Christian name." Then he shook his head thoughtfully, almost sadly, and muttered, "I'd never have believed it, of either of them…"

"And can you verify for us that this same Mrs. Lovett is the proprietress of this establishment?"

With furrowed brow, as though distracted by his own thoughts, Anthony turned to the sergeant and nodded. Nellie heard one of the constables mutter something about "sick monster"; and all of the gathered officers, with the exception of the sergeant, were glaring at her as though they'd like to tear her apart with their bare hands. Which, she knew, was all too likely a probability, once her deeds were exposed. Somehow death at the end of a rope seemed preferable to death at the hands of a mob comprised of her former customers. She could only imagine what they might do to her…

"Right, that will be all, Mr. Hope. We'll be calling on you again very soon." Walters nodded brusquely to an officer, who escorted the sailor out. The sergeant turned to Nellie then, his voice surprisingly quiet as he addressed her. "Is there anything you wish to say for yourself, Mrs. Lovett?"

Her hands tightened on Toby's shoulders, a silent signal to let her speak, to not say another word that might incriminate himself; and she felt him tense like a bundle of piano wire. "No, sir," she replied. "Nothing."

Walters nodded slowly – hesitated – softly said, "Take her."

And then, all hell broke loose.

The four constables standing in the parlor rushed at her in a body – Toby was trying to push her backwards, toward the back hall, the only route the police weren't blocking, and she struggled with him, telling him it was all right, telling him to let her go and give the police what they wanted, but he was amazingly strong for his size and he was shouting that she had nothing to do with any of it and threatening the officers, but the men were on him in a blink, prying him off her, seizing her roughly –

"Take the boy into custody," said Walters.

Only then did panic surge through Lovett's heart (the mighty men of law weren't above hanging a child, she knew) and she screamed at them to leave the boy alone, the words bubbling from her mouth in a frenzied rush: "I swear before God he never knew what went on, I kept it from him, never let him in the bake house, he never liked Todd, never trusted him, he told me – "

"_God?"_ an officer shrieked into her ear as brutal fingers closed around her arm – down to the very bone, it felt like – sending pain shooting up to her shoulder. "You dare call on God, murderin' filth?!"

"Boy were your bleedin' apprentice, weren't he?!" another man shouted in her face, his nose a hair's breadth away from hers. "You foul bloody harlot!"

"Get your paws off her!" Toby was screaming as he was dragged away by three officers…Walters standing with his hands behind his back, calmly observing the whole thing – they'd backed her against the wall (_new wallpaper, ain't been up a fortnight_), faces crowding in on her vision, blurring together, hands groping her not to restrain but to violate, despite the curses they were heaping on her –

The irony of it – she couldn't suppress a smirk, couldn't resist saying "Not too dirty for your hands, apparently, am I lads?"

Fast as a striking snake a fist connected hard with her jaw, rattling her teeth, snapping her head back into the wall – a dull, throbbing, nauseating pain swam through her brain, dimming her vision…

"That will be enough!" Walters roared, his voice instantly stilling the men, who stood quaking and seething, their rage and indignation still simmering below the surface. The sergeant jerked his head towards the door and added, "Take her out now."

"Yes sir…"

"With pleasure, Sergeant…"

They manhandled her through the parlor, through the shop, out the door onto the street, where a rather large mass of Londoners was gathering – Nellie recognized some of the faces, her customers, leaning to one another's ears, the news, or rumors, winging through the crowd – whispering ("barbarous"…"heinous"…"diabolical"), expressions clouding with disbelief, shock; lighting with dawning comprehension, horror, fury – sneering faces, craning necks, shaking heads, hands covering mouths open in astonishment, scattered shouts –

For the first time, Nellie was truly frightened.

"Keep the crowd away from her," Walters commanded, and seemingly from nowhere a number of bobbies emerged, drawing their nightsticks and gesturing with their hands, telling the rubberneckers to go home, forming a ring around the waiting carriage – a black bulk (_like a hearse,_ Lovett mused) with a splash of bright, shining color on the side, advertising an official conveyance. The constables shoved her unceremoniously in its direction, and her heart fluttered and lurched just as if she were already mounting the gallows.

She attempted (vainly) to shake them off with "No need for this, lads, I'll go quietly." Just as she spoke these words, the carriage door opened; and as she approached, ready to climb in, to face her doom, she made the mistake of looking at the constable holding the door.

It was Byrnes, lately her customer, so very fond of her succulent "pork" pies.

His complexion was still tinted a ghastly shade of pale green, his eyes bleary; but he boldly met her gaze, his expression tight, jaw clenched, the image of a consummate stoic. Just as Lovett was about to turn away, he leaned forward ever so slightly, and spat directly in her face, his saliva reeking with the residue of his vomit.

Nellie couldn't stifle a cry of disgust, bile rising in her throat as she instinctively moved her hand to wipe the vile slime away – but she was still restrained. Then a hand was on her head, forcing it down, compelling her to duck into the carriage, and three officers bundled her into the seat, produced irons from somewhere and clapped them painfully on her wrists and ankles. "Newgate!" Walters shouted from the street, and after two thumps on the outside of the carriage door, the vehicle clattered off.

At first she was anxious, being alone with these men; but they soon enough left off glaring at her and fell to talking amongst themselves, making crude jokes and debating which tavern to visit when they went off duty. Visiting a tavern…a last cruel reminder of the freedom others would go on enjoying. At least, she thought, her imprisonment wouldn't last too long. The public would demand speedy justice. Soon enough, she'd meet her executioner.

A strange, violent longing took hold of her then, and she swallowed hard, striving unsuccessfully to force it back down. She despised herself for it, this overwhelming yearning to feel the barber's touch at this moment, to see his face, to rest in his arms and hear his voice soothing her, comforting her, one last time.

Even after what he'd done to her.

She turned her face to the window so her guards could not see the small, bitter smile curling her lips. _Well done, my love,_ she thought. His final words to her were coming true. Her wounded soul would never knit, but keep on bleeding till its final departure for hell. Were she spared the hangman, time would heal nothing. Hatred was knocking at the door of her heart, yes – hatred of Todd for his cruelty, begging entry to murder the love that still dwelt there. But she knew that even if the darker impulse did intrude, it would never prevail. It might tangle with its opposite – mingle with it, even – but never overcome it.

She loathed herself even more for wanting it that way.

* * *

**A/N:** You know the drill: **please review!** And be honest - I want this to be top-notch. Any and all constructive suggestions for improvement are welcome. Thanks for reading :D


	3. A Dead Man

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

* * *

**3**

**A Dead Man.**

"_Mr. Todd?…"_

_Her soft knocking stirred him out of his thoughts – out of his mourning. If what he was doing could, indeed, be considered mourning in the proper sense. He'd always thought people wept uncontrollably, tore at their hair, when they suffered the kind of loss he'd discovered had befallen him. But his eyes were dry, and rather than the intense suffering he might expect, the only sensation in his body was a dull, hollow ache in his chest; in his mind, only numbness. Perhaps because it didn't feel real, somehow, what Lovett had told him. He still felt as though Lucy were only away visiting relatives; and tomorrow, or in a few days, she would breeze through the door, smiling that infectious smile of hers, whipping her bonnet off her golden head and onto the hook by the door – "Good custom today, darling?..." The knowledge of his mind, that she was lying cold in an unknown pauper's grave, sharing a mass pit with the decaying corpses of whores and drunkards, somehow wasn't reaching his heart._

_Perhaps he wasn't hysterical with sorrow because he couldn't bring himself to think too much about the details. Or perhaps the edge of his grief had been blunted by his newfound resolve, his new purpose: find Turpin, find Bamford, and extract a price of blood for their crimes. _

_There was no other option. Such men were beyond the law – Turpin himself _was_ the law, of course; and Bamford, his lapdog, exempt from…traditional justice, by association. And even if there were a higher authority to whom Todd could appeal, what was he to say? _"Yes, I'm the former Benjamin Barker. These gentlemen committed a gross injustice against me and caused the death of my wife. What's that? Oh, they sentenced me to a life of exile and hard labor. I'm supposed to still be there, actually. I escaped. May I have my daughter back now, please?..."

_Johanna…_

_How often, during his imprisonment in the lowest circle of hell, had he feared what might happen to his wife, and his little girl…He knew what too often befell women who were left on their own, through widowhood or abandonment or…other circumstances; and his nightmares frequently took the shape of a debtor's prison, his precious, beautiful Lucy condemned to waste away in a dark cell until…And his little girl, farmed out to an orphanage, a workhouse…or worse...And sometimes those dark dreams showed him an even more terrible sight: his wife, radiant and glorious, beatifically happy, on the arm of the man who'd destroyed his soul, his daughter cradled in the devil's arms, calling him Papa…And now, half of that terror had come to life. The other half was worse than he ever could have imagined. And while Turpin lived, there was simply no way possible for Todd to get his daughter back. None._

_Only the man's death could unlock the door to such a reunion._

_Throughout his time on the _Bountiful_, and when he'd set foot on London's ground for the first time in fifteen years, Todd had harbored no intention of killing any man. He'd seen – and caused – more than his share of spilled blood in the colony, and had hoped, with his escape, to be done with such savagery. His only desire was to find his family and get them the hell out of London, as far away as possible. But after what Lovett had told him…after finding his hopes in ruins…Justice was all that was left to him now, a justice he must fashion himself, using the…skills his incarceration had given him. Because the structure of human relations that men in their self-delusion so laughingly called "civilization" was not so very different from the society of Botany Bay. The only difference was the stark honesty of the latter. At least, in the confines of imprisonment, men didn't pretend they were bound together by anything other than their own fetters. At least beasts that walked on two legs didn't put on a sham of being anything else._

_A corner of Todd's upper lip curled just slightly at the thought: he'd only be bringing such honesty back to the city of London, disturbing (he hoped) its much-vaunted view of itself as a paragon of human achievement, by annihilating two of its prime representatives. _

_And if he could regain his Johanna in the process, so much the better…_

_Yes – it must be this driving ambition that was distracting him from focusing on the business of mourning. Mourning, after all, would do his Lucy no good. Only by devoting his energies to action – retribution – could he lay her spirit to rest._

_Earlier that morning, after busily and meticulously tucking some moth-eaten blankets around the thin mattress resting precariously on the rickety cot at the far end of the room – the only piece of furniture in the place aside from the old bureau, and the crib – Lovett had given a last look around, hovering about expectantly – expecting what, Todd couldn't guess – and had finally said "You must be tired, dear. I'll um…leave you to your thoughts, then;" and left him, gently clicking the door closed behind her. After that he'd felt restless and began rummaging about in the bureau drawers, and to his vast astonishment he found many of his old belongings: some dried-out bottles of cologne, a soap-crusted lather dish, some rusted clippers, shears that still worked…and the double picture frame, closed like a book._

_For a moment he simply stared, his heartbeat increasing rapidly by the second. Then, with trembling hands, he withdrew the frame, laying it on the bureau beside his razor case as he opened it, for fear that it might slip from his weakened grasp. _

_All that was left of himself. A double picture frame, and a box of razors. Not even enough to cover the surface of an ancient bureau top._

_But his Lucy and Johanna stood before him now, just as his mind had fought to preserve them…He ran his fingertips across the glass, across the flat, still, bloodless faces of his family…He closed his eyes, remembering, trying to endue the images with life, to see his wife's smile, hear her laughter, recall the words she'd spoken to him..._

_He took up the frame, crossed the room to the cot, and seated himself on its edge, leaning his elbows on his knees, staring hard at the photographs, conjuring visions of his happy past: of his darling wife, of their courtship, their wedding day, the times of intimacy they'd shared, the birth of their beautiful little girl. All those long years, breaking his back crushing bloody rocks, bleeding under the overseer's lash, scrabbling for his bare survival from one breath to the next, struggling to defend himself from the endless variety of abuses his fellow prisoners inflicted on one another, forming himself to the open brutality of their self-arranged society – all through that time, he'd been able to remember a great many things, and those memories had given him a reason to live, something to strive for, to work towards regaining. He'd battled against the years as the colors of his past began to fade, and he'd been able to hold on to at least the outlines. Yet even now – perhaps especially now – he couldn't be sure: had the events of his old life really occurred as his mind was seeing them; or was he inventing the details, creating the memories as he wished them to be?..._

_Did it matter? _

_Perhaps he was only tired…_

"_Soon you'll be at peace, my dear," he whispered to his wife's image. "And you," he said, touching the face of the baby in her arms, "I'll get you away from him…"_

_Eventually the frame slipped from the barber's hands and clattered to the floor, lying open-faced at his feet; and his head fell into his palms, his eyes shutting, sealing him in obscurity…He didn't know how long he sat there, unmoving, beyond exhaustion. He wasn't even sure whether he slept and dreamed, or if his consciousness simply wove through scattered memories with darknesses in between…until at last the soft _tap-tap-tap_ came at the door to the interior stairs, followed by Lovett's voice, low and quiet, as though afraid of disturbing or waking him: "Mr. Todd?..."_

_He sat up – lifting his head, he saw only blackness, and blinked – then realized that the room itself, not his sight, had gone dark. Night had fallen beyond the grimy window panes (how Lucy used to love sitting there, in the sun) without his notice – he hadn't moved from this spot all day, then. _

_The last thing he wanted at the moment was company; but he supposed that, as the proprietress of his lodgings, Lovett might have something important to tell him. So he said, "Enter."_

_She did so, peering around the door, smiling when she caught sight of him. "Did you sleep at all, dear?" she asked._

_He shook his head curtly, not looking at her._

_She paused for the briefest moment before going on. "Well, I was just about to fix myself a drink before retirin', Mr. T. Thought I'd ask if you'd like one." _

_Retiring?...Was it that late, or did the woman simply turn in exceptionally early? He'd completely lost awareness of the passage of time...Suddenly a drink did sound good to him – so long as it was the halfway acceptable gin she'd given him earlier that day, and not the stale, flavorless swill she had the nerve to call ale. Alcohol had been all too hard to come by in the colony. He'd missed a good strong drink, the comfort and calm it brought. _

_He rose and stepped towards Lovett in wordless reply; and her smile widened as she said "Come on, then…"_

_He languidly followed her down the stairs and into the parlor, where he had to squint against the comparative blaze of light contrasting the dimness he'd just left. A cheerful fire was glowing in the grate, making even this dismal room seem surprisingly welcoming, though he still felt horribly disoriented from losing the entire day to the stupor he'd fallen into. Lovett was already waiting with his drink, extending the glass to him the instant he came through the door, as though it had already been poured before she'd gone up to ask him if he wanted it. "Take a seat, love," she said. "Make yourself at home."_

_He did so, taking one of the chairs facing the hearth while his landlady inexplicably vanished into the shop beyond the curtain that separated the business from her living space. Only when Todd raised the glass to his lips did he realize that the liquid was neither gin nor ale, but a rich-smelling, amber-colored whiskey. Startled, he sipped cautiously – and it was like nectar, the kind of good quality liquor he hadn't tasted in what seemed an eternity, warming his insides and quieting his mind as it went down. He was wondering where she'd procured this, how she'd been able to afford it, when she reappeared with a plate in her hand and offered it to him. _

"_Here you go," she said, the firelight dancing in her dark eyes. _

_He hesitated at first, expecting another pie composed of only God knew what rancid rot – and was shocked to find a sizable chunk of soft white bread and a slab of cheese – neither of them moldy. She must have gone out and procured them while he sat upstairs all day, lost in his reveries._

_He eyed the food warily. Over the past fifteen years he'd come to see such gestures of generosity as bribes, or exchanges for favors or protection. His instant reaction was that Lovett had some selfish motive for this offering – that as soon as he accepted it, she would tell him what she wanted in return. But he suddenly realized how ravenous he was, and he took the plate (without thanking her – thanks were not given for bribes or favor-currying) and began on the cheese. _

_This seemed to please Lovett immensely, because her smile broadened and her voice was bright as she said "You must be starvin', dear," turning away to settle herself into the chair opposite his. "Sorry I couldn't offer you somethin' better when you first come in this mornin'. Wish it could be more, but times is hard, as you know. Tuck in, that's right. I've had my supper."_

_He shifted his eyes to her, and knew she was lying. She'd know all about starving, wouldn't she, if her own appearance was any indication. Yet she was giving this feast to him, all of it. The only thing she was partaking of was the whiskey. _And if times are so hard, how have you been able to get hold of all this, Mrs. Lovett? _he thought. Judging from the almost sickly pallor of her complexion and her skin-and-bones frame, she didn't see fit to indulge in such luxuries for herself; and she certainly couldn't afford decent pie filling…Todd wondered briefly how long she'd been living on nothing but alcohol. And yet she wasn't getting to the point, wasn't telling him what all this was for. As though she didn't _want_ anything from him in return. _

_She'd probably gone into debt for this. Just this much – a half-loaf of bread, a bit of cheese, and a little bottle of whiskey. _

_He polished off the excellent cheese in startlingly short order – trying all the while to ignore the sense of her eyes on him while she prattled on about how difficult life in London had become in his absence – and only when he was halfway through the bread did he begin to slow down. After a time, he turned his gaze to the fire, cleared his throat, and said gruffly, without noticing or considering whether she was still speaking, "I can't pay you any rent. Tomorrow I'll find another place and you can lease out the upstairs."_

_He heard the desperate protest churning beneath the cheerfulness of her voice as she rapidly answered, "Oh no, Mr. Todd. I'm not gonna charge you anythin' to live here."_

_A quiver of indignation ran through him. He might only be a remnant of the man he once was, but he still had some human pride after all. He was more than capable of practicing a trade; he'd be damned if he was going to take any handouts. "I can't do that," he said harshly._

"_All right," she sighed after a moment. "Let's just call it delayed, then, hey? Give me what you can, when you can."_

_He considered this a moment, and finally had to admit to himself that it was the best option: he had no means to pay for room and board anywhere else, and Lovett's proposal would at least allow him time to gather funds until he was able to fully support himself. This would spare him the humiliation of asking a new landlord for a delay. He could haggle price with Lovett when he had something to offer. _

_Besides – it was poetic, really, being back in his old place. He could see it in his mind, all of it: destroying Turpin in the very room where Todd's family had disintegrated through the judge's actions. How fitting, how perfect._

_How just._

_So the barber nodded. But he vaguely wondered why, in her obvious material need, Lovett would take on a tenant who couldn't pay._

"'_Sides," she went on, "with your skills I'm sure it won't take long for you to establish a reputation for yourself again, start bringin' some good money in. Then once word gets 'round, you'll have the ol' judge up there in no time at all."_

_Her statement startled him, and his head whipped round in her direction. "You realize what I want with him," he murmured, eyebrows raised._

"'_Course, dear. You made that clear this mornin'."_

_His forehead crinkled. "And you'll still let me stay here. And do him in right over your head."_

_She actually winked at him. _

_Todd wasn't sure why he'd confided in her that morning, after hearing the respective fates of his Lucy and Johanna. He didn't know why he found it so easy to trust Lovett with such a thing, when he'd worked so hard teaching himself not to trust anyone. Perhaps it was because he remembered that she'd been a friend all those years ago, before his imprisonment, and he saw her as a link to his past – someone who'd remember the injustice inflicted on him; someone who was there to witness what had happened to his family. Perhaps he sensed, somehow, her readiness to accept whatever he was, whatever he did, though he didn't understand it. _

"_Why are you helpin' me?" he asked. "Why didn't you run to the police this mornin' when I told you what I was plannin'?"_

_She looked into her tumbler and somberly replied, "Got my own reasons for wantin' that man dead, dearie. If he'd ever come in here back then I'd've gladly laced his pie with rat poison and wouldn't've blinked an eye." Then she drained her glass, and her voice regained its lightness as she said, "But enough time to talk about all that tomorrow, hey? Market day ain't till next week, anyhow; can't humiliate your competition till then…"_

_Todd was beginning to think he'd made a good decision, bringing her in on his plans. What better accomplice than one who shared his motives? But he was curious…He looked into the fire again, and asked, "What's your grudge against him, then?" _

_She sighed deeply, and answered, "Some other time, love." Then she took up the bottle and leaned across the table between them to replenish his glass, saying "Recognize the whiskey?" as she did so. _

_What an odd question. He didn't respond; and as she refilled her own tumbler she went on, with a sense of fond nostalgia in her voice: "My Albert's favorite label, this was. Used to serve it when you'd come down for a friendly drink, remember?"_

_Albert Lovett…of course…The photograph behind the shop counter. Todd recalled glancing at it earlier that morning, but he hadn't thought at the time of the significance of the black frame and matting surrounding the image. It was a mourning photograph. _

_"What happened to him?"_

_She looked into her whiskey. "Passed on," she answered matter-of-factly, "oh, lemme think now…must've been…about two, three years after you – left. Heart just stopped beatin' one night. Woke up beside a corpse the next mornin', I did…" _

"_My condolences," Todd mumbled emotionlessly, taking a drink._

"_Thank you, dear. Though I can't say I didn't see it comin'. Always indulged far too much for his own good, that man, never listened when I tried to make him slow down…"_

_And for the first time, Todd realized that she'd lost someone too – not in as terrible a fashion as he had, of course, but a loss nonetheless. The things they shared in common continued, surprisingly, to pile up. And her loss was such as had, eventually, precipitated her into the situation of obvious poverty in which she was now struggling to exist. He didn't have many specific recollections of his landlady – he'd spent the years pouring all his energy into remembering his own family – but he generally remembered her as a rather nice-looking, cheerful, vivacious woman who wore a smile more often than not, always ready with a witty remark and bright enough, despite her lack of formal education, to engage a conversation about pretty much any subject. She used to give him free pies, too, and they were good. Delightful, in fact. But now, it was as though a ghost sat before him. Perhaps she hadn't been joking when she'd told him the place was haunted. She'd been the one haunting it. _

Dear God,_ he thought, _is there nothing this godforsaken city doesn't destroy?...

"_Years haven't been too kind to either one of us, I suppose," he muttered, his voice a monotone._

_She shrugged and took a long draught of whiskey. "I got by," she said simply, a dash of acid in the words._

_For a long while they sat in silence, Todd staring steadily into the yellow brilliance of the hearth fire, letting the warmth of the room settle over him, contemplating his own reaction to the revelations of the last few minutes. He found himself astonished to discover a connection of sorts between himself and his benefactress: the bond of suffering. He hadn't expected to find this here, now, on his return to London; he'd only experienced it with a handful of his fellow convicts, some men he'd fallen in with for the sake of survival – a necessary accommodation, finding men of similar temperament and sticking close to them in a sort of mutual protection society. But full trust – that was always another matter. It was never expected of anyone. There was an unspoken understanding in the colony that trust was the first step to getting a blade in your back._

_But here...Perhaps Todd had something better in the person of his landlady. Someone who understood his situation well enough to keep an eye on his back, make sure no blades got stuck in it. With full awareness of his intentions, she was giving him everything he needed to accomplish his bloody goal, telling him he could set up shop again, returning his beloved barbering knives to him…_

_At that thought, something else occurred to Todd's weary mind. They'd certainly looked fine, those tools of his trade, after all the long years…_

"_Mrs. Lovett."_

"_Yes, Mr. T."_

"_My razors."_

_A long pause. Then, innocently: "What about 'em, love?"_

"_I'd have thought that after fifteen years they'd be badly tarnished. Yet they look good as new." He turned to her then, and found that she was staring at him intently, a strange light shining in her eyes, her careworn face soft in the firelight, wearing an emotion he couldn't quite read. And then, her eyes remaining locked on his as though silently willing him to understand her meaning, her voice so low it was almost husky, she said: "They were terrible tarnished the first time."_

_He'd never allowed anyone to touch his knives, not even Lucy; he'd always felt that the instruments of his trade were an expression of his very self, so deeply intimate it would have been like touching a part of his soul no human being should be able to access…and yet this woman had –_

_It should have felt like a violation. He ought to have been outraged – but he wasn't. Somehow, as he sat regarding this tired widow, looking as though she'd narrowly escaped a harrowing scuffle with an undertaker, her loneliness evident in her garrulous manner and desire for his company – somehow it felt appropriate that she'd been his friends' custodian. This feeling confused Todd; but he supposed he was grateful she'd taken the trouble. Still – any normal person in her circumstances would certainly have profited from his absence. Yet she hadn't taken advantage at all – hadn't sold the silver, hadn't let the first floor. Not even when things had become so brutally desperate. _

_She'd given up her own life to be the guardian of his._

_But –_

"_Why?" he asked._

"_Had to have 'em ready, didn't I?"_

"_For what?"_

"_For when you came back."_

"_I was never supposed to _come back_, Mrs. Lovett," he growled, rounding on her, anger simmering in his voice now. Come back? How could she have such confidence when –_

_When his own wife hadn't. Even after he'd sworn to her, with an oath, on that last night before he'd been shipped off when they'd allowed her a brief visit to his cell, that he'd find a way back to her, no matter how long it took. "Trust me, Lucy," he'd said, brushing the tears from her cheeks, his heart breaking. "Wait for me. I _will_ come back for you and Johanna, that's a promise." Yet she hadn't waited long before losing faith in him. He understood that she'd suffered beyond tolerance; but surely his promise should have been enough to keep her from utter despair. _

_And here was Lovett, so smug, so sure, who'd held on to the shards of his life for a decade and a bloody half. _

_It enraged him._

"_I don't need remindin' o' that, Mr. Todd," Lovett countered calmly. "Just always hoped you would, is all."_

_Her gaze hadn't faltered: her eyes were still steady on him, shining in the firelight. He turned away again, somewhat mollified in the face of her insistence, her failure to cower before his burgeoning wrath. "Should've sold the bleedin' things, got a decent supper in you," he grumbled, looking to his whiskey again._

"_Well I'm bloody well glad I didn't," she said, her voice rising slightly, but not with anger, "'cause here you are, aren't you? So I were right in the end, weren't I?"_

_His jaw clamped tight. "If only you'd shared such optimistic sentiments with my wife," he sneered into his glass._

_She made no reply._

_The room grew quiet once more, the warm stillness broken only after a long lull by Lovett's soft voice again: "I'm sorry it didn't do any good." _

"_What're you talkin' about?"_

"_My testimony."_

_Ah yes…That memory had served him well at first, in the early days of his imprisonment: the image of Lovett and her husband speaking on his behalf, the proof that he'd had friends who'd miss him. He'd been quite astonished to see her on the stand, subtly but firmly wringing a handkerchief and only barely managing to keep herself from going to pieces…_"I never knew a better man, Your Honor"…_H__ad she berated herself like this for fifteen years, over something she couldn't possibly control?..._

"_Did what you could," he shrugged. _

"_It weren't enough. I tried so hard to save you, and I couldn't."_

_There was something in her tone that made Todd uneasy, and he regretted returning his eyes to her, because the way she was looking at him gave him a chill – as though she were staring down into the very core of his being. _

"_What in heaven's name did they do to you over there?" she whispered. "That bit o' white in your hair" – her eyes flicked to it – "you never had that before; what – "_

_Black fury swelled his heart then, and he pushed the images from his mind – to no avail; they were etched into his brain forever, he saw it all again and again every day and lived it over every night – _

"_If you wish me to remain under this roof," he snarled – for she obviously did wish it, all the lengths she'd gone to for his sake – "you will never ask me that again."_

_She flinched at his outburst, but recovered quickly, holding his gaze in silence, her eyes narrowing slightly. He couldn't stand such direct eye contact for too long – he'd come to see such a gesture as a challenge in the colony – and he wanted to be done here, at any rate. So he turned back to his drink and finished off what little remained in the tumbler, setting it down on the side table a bit too hard when he was done, and rising to take his leave. He was on his way to simply exit the room without so much as a "good night", but stopped himself as he passed her chair. He supposed he ought to be…what was the word? Cordial? They were sharing a roof, after all. And he did owe the woman something – much, indeed…he bristled under the burden of being in anyone's debt, but there it was. And it did appear as though they would be entering a partnership, of sorts, with her helping in his plan to slay the judge. So he half-turned, looking not at her puzzled face but somewhere near the piano in the corner, as he woodenly ground out the words, "I…appreciate…all your trouble."_

"_It's no trouble at all, Mr. Todd," she replied happily, reaching out and lightly taking hold of his nearest hand. "Least I can do for an old friend." _

_Her touch was like a blow to his face. Only then did he feel how long it had been since he'd experienced any kind of human contact that wasn't threatening, or meant to communicate the brutal dynamics of dominance or submission. It shocked the hell out of him; it was dangerous, not to be trusted, and suddenly he wanted nothing so much as to flee the room. He made a move to do so – but she squeezed his hand and held him back. When he glanced towards her, she looked right into his eyes and said, almost tenderly, "It's so good to have you home again – "_

_He cut her off by withdrawing his hand as sharply as though he'd thrust it into a flame, turning on his heel, and marching up to his lodgings, her voice unintelligibly following him out the door. _

****************

_"So good to have you home again, Mr. Todd…"_

That voice…so soothing, so expressive…It never failed to cool the fever in his brain, that voice…Yes, he was home; the voice itself was like home…He wanted to give in to it, lose himself in it…but it was fading away…

"_So good…home…Todd…"_

"Todd?"

Suddenly the voice changed: a man's voice now, gruff and foreign, muffled through the – stuff, what was it? – filling Todd's ears – and then he registered the driving pain in his chest.

_"Todd!"_

He tried to breathe, but his lungs had lost their power; they only seized and spasmed. The pain was unbearable, someone must be stabbing him –

His mouth opened in an effort to inhale, but only briny water poured in –

He was drowning.

"_Todd!"_

He gasped, panicking, drawing water down his throat, thrashing against the strong hands that gripped his shoulders like iron vises, the arms that cinched around his ribs, pulling him back –

The barber felt he was emerging from a grave, the water rushing past him, deafening him with its suction as he came up into the open air, his body impulsively, desperately gulping oxygen in long, harsh pulls, sea salt stinging his eyes, blinding him. He was still being dragged; and now that his ears were somewhat clear of water, he could hear the chaotic jumble of shouting voices – men screaming – and suddenly the deck shuddered and heaved beneath his feet, as though something massive had slammed into the hull of the ship.

The ship…

"Hang on, Todd!" his rescuer cried.

He was coming back to his senses now…

He'd taken on as a crewman with Danny Blake, the English merchant, a vigorous fifty-five years young, who was passionately embroiled, in his own way, in a foreign conflict. But to hear Blake himself speak of it, the war that had split America into the United and Confederate States was every inch the concern of England: the Federal blockade of the South had all but ended the export of cotton, and taking goods into ports along the southern Atlantic seaboard became nigh impossible as the blockade tightened its grip. Every English merchant was affected: the comforts of English life at large, Blake insisted, were endangered by this cessation of trade. So every three months – give or take - he'd sail his sloop across the Atlantic to Havana, then change to a light steamer he kept moored there: the _Hawkshead_, long and low-profiled and fast, and had thus far had great success in regularly racing past the heavily armed vessels of the United States Navy. Once the steamer had exchanged its cargo for a good supply of cotton, it would run the blockade the other way and return to Havana, where the goods would be transferred to the sloop and the voyage back to England would begin.

Unlike some others, Blake had not armed or armored his ship. Even the lightest armaments, he insisted, would weigh the vessel down unacceptably: even the slightest fraction of speed lost might spell certain doom. The _Hawkshead_'s only defense was its capacity to outrun the wind itself. This, Blake had told his crew, was the reason for their attempt at Galveston: Federal presence was there, but thin, and the Texan port was currently one of the easiest to reach. The other was the Sabine Pass – totally free of the blockade but a bad idea, Blake said: first because they'd gone into Sabine the last time and consecutive attempts at the same port flirted with destruction or capture; second, because of the yellow fever ravaging the area.

They would run the blockade at night, under cover of darkness. Blake had been confident: hoisting the British colors as the _Hawkshead _steamed for port had always served him (and other runners) well in the past. The Federals would hardly dare to fire on a ship flying the Union jack – particularly, Todd had learned on the crossing, as England was seriously considering supporting the Confederacy, the cotton trade being one consideration in this potential alliance. The US could hardly afford to anger the Crown, and firing on a British vessel would obviously be a catalyst for a devastating international incident.

But when Todd felt the deck lurch and heard a horrible, screeching groan from the belly of the ship, like the death bellow of some great metallic monster, he knew something had gone dreadfully wrong.

His arm was suddenly being jerked almost out of its socket, and a hand went to the back of his knee – he was being lifted onto his rescuer's shoulders. "We gotta get up on deck!" the man was shouting. "It's every man for himself now!"

Todd, slung across his savior's back, felt their sluggish progress, the other man being weighed down by carrying the barber while trying to slog through knee-deep water. Soon enough, though, Todd saw his companion's large, rough hands grasping the rungs of a ladder, and together they began climbing out of the deathtrap the hold had become. But the ship was listing – in which direction, Todd couldn't tell; but the angle was severe enough to make using the ladder difficult. When at last they reached the hatch, the other man somehow managed to haul both of them through; and Todd knew, by this, who his rescuer must be. There was only one man on the crew with such extraordinary strength: the helmsman, Owen MacMullen, a big Georgian of Scots descent who'd joined up with Blake to avoid conscription into the CS Army. Once through, Todd rolled onto the deck and waited for his companion, and the sight of the great, shaggy ginger head emerging from the hatch behind him confirmed his guess.

"What the bleedin' hell is goin' on?!" Todd shouted, as the two men scrambled across the second deck – mercifully free of flooding – and made for the nearest ladder, one that would take them, finally, up top.

"You don't remember?" MacMullen shouted. "Lookout was drunk or asleep, outer ships spotted us before we could hoist the colors. Captain wouldn't heave to when ordered and the sons of bitches opened fire. Passel more ships than we thought there'd be. You took a blow to the head. Lucky for you I came along when I did, you were about to drown in three feet of water!"

Todd, regaining his own footing now, refused MacMullen's offer of assistance. Side by side, they stumbled to the ladder, tripping over torn and ravaged bodies, passing men wild with panic, some wandering in glassy-eyed shock, muttering to themselves, carrying their own severed limbs…Todd found a ladder and scrambled up, followed close by the helmsman; and when the barber's head drew level with the top deck the first sight that met his eyes was Blake, screaming the order to abandon ship.

That was the last Todd saw of the captain before a Federal shell took his head clean off.

"Rayburn!" MacMullen was yelling; and Todd turned to see the bearer of that name, the second mate, a native Londoner, hurtling towards them. "Are we running aground?"

"That or we're gonna break up, or get captured," a wild-eyed Rayburn replied, grasping MacMullen's arm. "And I'll be goddamned if I get clapped into a Yankee prison!"

The three men cast a glance around, anarchy reigning all about them.

"Best we stick together, then," MacMullen suggested. "Better chance for all of us that way."

"Aye!" Rayburn concurred. "If we do run aground, we'll need to burn the ship, keep the cargo from falling into US hands. She'll be useless then anyway."

Another volley rocked the ship, making Todd stumble. Rayburn's hand shot out and caught his sleeve before he slammed into the tilting deck.

"We don't have much time!" the second mate cried. "Come on!"

Todd flung himself after his two shipmates, and now, in the open air, his sense of orientation improved. He could tell that the ship was listing to port, that he and MacMullen had emerged near the bow, that the stern was submerging at a frightening rate, and that Rayburn's fears of the Federals seizing the cargo were unfounded. The _Hawkshead_ would not be running aground: the vessel was as good as dead in the water.

"We'll have to go overboard," Rayburn was yelling, "then swim for Fort Point. It's not far, we can make it from here."

At this, Todd began kicking off his shoes, pulling off his sopping coat and vest. Somewhere in his frantic mind he noticed that no one else was following them; men were running helplessly in all directions, chaos overtaking their minds. So much the better, the barber mused – it would be easier for three to survive than a great crowd of panicking, undisciplined men.

"All right, boys!" Rayburn cried. "The ship's gonna start goin' down fast. Before that happens we can slip off the stern into the water and swim like the devil himself is chasin' us!"

Todd and MacMullen answered the formal "Aye" in unison, propelling themselves after the second mate, feet slipping madly on the leaning deck, as a shell rent the air not six inches from Todd's head.

"Keep low!" screamed Rayburn. But in another heartbeat they were at the waterline, and without further preamble they threw themselves in.

Todd could feel the churning in the depths below him, the pull of the deep as the _Hawkshead_ steadily went down. Wordlessly setting their plan into action, the three men set to swimming madly away from the steamer, but they hadn't got clear of it before a blood-chilling scream sounded behind them, followed by the far worse shriek of grinding metal. Todd made the mistake of turning his head – just in time to see one of the funnels toppling, ever faster – toppling towards _him_.

Todd never knew why he didn't just tread water where he was, wait for the thing to crash into his head and be done with it. But that wasn't his first impulse. Without stopping to think, he simply reacted: he drew the deepest breath he could muster, and _dove_.

He cut through the water, ripping his increasingly cumbersome shirt from his torso as he went, diving, diving deep, as he felt the shock of the funnel hitting the water above him. But he'd avoided it…Now all that remained was to find his way to the surface again. Already his lungs were beginning to protest – still aching from their recent near-drowning, he supposed – and he was disoriented in the darkness of the water. So he stopped winging his arms and turned in what he thought must be the direction of the surface, pedaling his feet, until he saw above him a glint of sunlight filtering through the brine, and the great silhouette of the fallen funnel. Like a man possessed he made for the light, the air bubbling from his overtaxed lungs the whole way, his muscles proclaiming their fatigue, until, just when he thought he might sink back into the abyss, he broke through.

MacMullen and Rayburn were headed in his direction. "Ha! Lucky bastard!" Rayburn cried. "Stop messin' about and swim!"

But he couldn't make it to the Point, though he could see it and the small fortification that gave it its name – not now, not without help. Casting a glance around the immediate area, he scanned the floating debris of the _Hawkshead_ till his eyes lighted on some crates bobbing a few meters away. These he was confident of reaching; and with a great effort he did, grasping a box to keep himself afloat. He was so tired…

"What the hell is he doing?!" he heard MacMullen say. "Todd! You're gonna get your fool self captured!"

Once more they began swimming back towards him; but Todd, loathe to accept their assistance, summoned reserves of strength he didn't know he possessed and began pushing his way through the water, the crate aiding him as it was carried along the current, till finally he was closing the distance. "Go on," he called out harshly – to stop their gaping at him, if nothing else; and they did, reaching Fort Point a few minutes before Todd himself. From the water's edge, the three men watched as their vessel, defenseless against the relentless pounding of the Yankee guns, slowly slipped out of sight below the waterline, only a froth of white foam indicating it had ever existed; and with its vanishing, the great naval artillery fell silent, leaving only an echo of blue-sky thunder in the harbor, and the smell of black powder on the air.

They were welcomed by the handful of men stationed as lookouts and tenders of the lone artillery piece rather ineffectively guarding mouth of the port of Galveston. The soldiers managed to scrape up some food and dry clothing from their meager supplies, and Todd was soon clad in dark brown military-issue trousers, worn leather shoes, and a soft butternut shirt.

From all appearances, he, Rayburn, and MacMullen were the only survivors of the sinking.

"I might join my brother's regiment," MacMullen was saying as the three of them chewed on the salt jerky and hardtack set before them – the latter a dry, rock-hard, wormy, tasteless kind of bread brick, the teeth-breaking properties of which were not really alleviated by dipping into the bitter black coffee set before them. Todd had never encountered such a poor excuse for anything edible –

_unless it were Nellie's pies, when I first went back –_

He blinked his accursed recollections away and focused on MacMullen's voice. "I mean, might as well, right? CSA's bound to get me some way, now I'm back. Where else am I gonna go?"

"You could always join the Navy, it's nice and safe," smirked Rayburn, his comment rewarded by a piece of hardtack to the head.

About an hour passed before the lookout announced that a boat was approaching from port, and a short conference determined that it might be a rescue party, come to pick up any survivors of the sinking. On going out to meet this craft – about the size of a lifeboat – the men found that this was indeed the case: the battle had been viewed from the city, and a delegation was sent to assist once the firepower had ceased.

"Look at 'em now," MacMullen said, clambering into the boat, his eyes on the US ships beyond the harbor's approach. "Just a-settin' there like nothin' happened!"

"They don't care about the crewmen," said the grey-coated soldier in charge of the rescue boat. Todd was surprised to hear a bit of Irish brogue in his voice, mingled with a drawl of…something else…There was something familiar about the man, in fact, though the barber couldn't quite place how or where he'd known him. It made Todd uneasy, this feeling – particularly as it was occurring halfway across the world…

"They won't come looking for you," the man went on. "Just want to make sure the cargo doesn't get through."

"They did that, good and proper," said Rayburn. "Out of work now, my lads."

"Don't despair," the nameless soldier smiled. "Confederacy's always looking for good men, even if they're not Americans. Just look at me."

It was then that his eyes landed on Todd, who was the last to step into the boat. Something like surprise flitted across the stranger's face then, but it passed just as quickly; and the men were quiet during the trip to the city. But Todd felt eyes on him the whole way across the harbor, and he studiously kept his gaze on the little boat's gunwale, watching the water slide past.

At last they pulled up to the wharves, and the men went about the task of mooring it securely – but as the group made to step onto the dock, the fighting man Todd had been avoiding grabbed hold of the barber's sleeve, holding him back, keeping him in the boat, until the others moved off, apparently unaware that two of their number had stayed behind.

"Sweet Jesus!" said the Confederate; and Todd glanced over to him. "As I live! There's a face I never thought I'd see again!"

Todd swallowed. _I know this man…_ "Forgive me, sir. I've never been in this country. You've mistaken me for someone else."

He shook his head, smiling knowingly. "No mistake…I'd recognize that face anywhere, and that white streakin' through your black head…no, you're the man himself…"

His eyes flicked to Todd's right hand. "And you never got rid of that ring, I see…"

Todd's head snapped up then, and he looked right at the man, straight into his eyes –

And then something clicked, and he knew.

_It can't be…it's not possible…_

"Barker," his old acquaintance said, as though he himself didn't quite believe the word he was speaking. "Ha! Strange world, mate. We thought you were a dead man."

* * *

**A/N:** So by now you have some idea of how this format is going to go. There will be lots of flashbacks and memories, to establish the backstory and the development of the relationship, so we can see how the characters got where they are now. But it will all be stuff that doesn't appear in the film, because...well, we've all seen the film, haven't we? If I was going to repeat stuff from the film you might as well watch the DVD instead of reading this ;) So **please review** and let me know how this approach works. Not every chapter will have a flashback as long as this one, BTW...And the end isn't _really_ a cliffie...I don't think; it's not meant to be, anyway :)


	4. The Haunted

**Disclaimers:** See Chapter 1.

**A/N:** Greetings! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and subscribed so far. Your feedback is SO VERY MUCH appreciated!

There are a few references to the historical situation in this chapter, which I'll put in my AN at the end.

Enjoy!

* * *

**4**

**The Haunted.**

Nellie hadn't slept. Aside from her accustomed reluctance to allow herself to drift off completely, lest her guards finally decide to alleviate their late-night frustrations at her expense, she was too stiff and sore from sitting in the same position all night to have gotten any real rest. She'd only closed her eyes for a few minutes in an attempt to rid her mind of the image beyond her barred window. Not that it had worked: the sight haunted her, even in the fleeting, half-formed dreams that floated through the brief snatches of sleep she did manage. Her head was still leaning against the cold, damp, unyielding wall of her cell, her manacled hands, chafed raw by the iron around her bloodied wrists, lying limp atop her filthy, tattered skirt.

Her eyes flicked down to the garment, and she smiled bitterly. It was the same dress she'd worn that night – the best she owned. How proud she'd been of the way she looked that night, and she'd felt so certain that Todd would think the same. She'd put on that dress as part of a last attempt to reach him after he'd been distracted by that damned sailor's interruption…She couldn't read the barber's face in that moment, when she'd told him they could have a life together, after all this was done, after his vengeance was satisfied; when he'd turned and met her eyes, she couldn't see what he was thinking, and though she'd been hopeful, a part of her was terrified beyond words that he might refuse her. After she'd gone back down to the shop, she'd talked herself out of the despair threatening to steal over her; and knowing that Todd was summoning the judge, she'd donned that dress, planning to confront the barber the instant the magistrate's body hit the bake house floor, and get an answer from him once and for all.

_Just look how that brilliant idea turned out, Nell…_

And now, that same dress was still on her, like a second skin, mocking her, throwing her dreams back in her face. Changes of clothing were rare to nonexistent at Newgate, of course, and she'd been stuck with this reminder of that night since her arrest. That was a month ago. Even during her trial, they hadn't allowed her a change. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been given any water for bathing, either. She chuckled to herself – if only the judge and jury had known that this dress was a worse bloody prison than any bars and stone could be…

She didn't need to glance out the small, barred opening, conveniently at the level of her eyes; but she did anyway. Immediately after her sentence had been pronounced, they'd taken her here, to one of the cells of the condemned, overlooking the gallows, the grisly view a constant reminder that her end was near. It was a solitary cell – the authorities fearing that if they put her in the common hold with the others awaiting execution, there'd be nothing left of her to hang.

She'd occupied this particular cell for four days running now, and would vacate it permanently the next morning, promptly at nine.

Her guards never seemed to tire of swapping stories right outside her door – tales that made even her blood run cold, of times when the rope had been too long and the condemned had suffered a slow, agonizing death by strangulation; incidents where the noose hadn't been prepared properly and the prisoner's head would be raggedly severed – completely or partially; occasions when the rope had been too old or brittle or desiccated and had snapped, dropping the prisoner into the dust.

God in heaven, she had nightmares about it: a botched execution, offering opportunity for the unruly mob, angered by the first attempt's failure, to overpower the officials restraining them and rush on her…

The mob. That was the worst thing – the sound of it. Day and night they crowded outside the prison walls, the whole population of London, it seemed, chanting their demands for her death as though the matter hadn't already been decided; their rabid voices, hungry for her destruction, sounding ceaselessly in her ears. The populace – as her guards never tired of taunting her – was on tenterhooks for the execution day. Turnout was expected to be higher than any in recent memory. "Well, lads," she often shot back, "I only hope you do your bloody job and get me to the platform before _they_ can get their hands on me." Because what they might do to her didn't bear imagining.

She'd wager ten pounds it wouldn't be as quick as a hanging. Even a bungled one.

The trial had gone quickly, much as she'd expected – lasted only two days, the Crown presenting its case casually, treating the whole affair as a waste of time; her defense lamely making the case that she'd been coerced to her gruesome deeds by the fiendish barber, which argument hadn't done any good at all. They jury had made up their minds, she knew, before they were even seated in their box.

"_Eleanor Lovett, you have been found guilty by this court. You will be returned to Newgate Prison, where you will await the day of your execution. On that day you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead."_

But instead of the standard "And may God have mercy on your soul," the magistrate – Turpin's successor, a young buck still in the throes of congratulating himself on winning such a promotion – had leaned forward, dropping his previous air of legal formality, and said, _"I myself will be there, and I assure you I will look forward to that day with glad anticipation. It gives me the greatest pleasure to hand down this particular sentence, as it will rid the earth of the most depraved evil to ever have walked upon it."_

She'd been almost flattered. He certainly gave her a great deal of credit.

But her chief concern, all through her initial imprisonment and the trial, was that she'd never been able to determine what had become of her son. (_Yes…might as well call him that…_) Since the lad had been ripped from her arms at her arrest, she'd asked her interrogators continuously to give her some inkling of Toby's welfare, but they'd told her nothing. She'd hardly expected to see him at the trial, thinking he might be deemed too young to testify; but she'd been wrong: the prosecution argued for the importance and validity of his testimony as the prime eyewitness in the case, and she'd had to watch him mount the stand, hear his voice accusing her in a monotone: _"Yes sir, that's Mrs. Lovett there at the bar. Yes sir, it were a powerful sudden change in the establishment after my employer, Se__ñ__or Pirelli, disappeared. No sir, she never let me go down to the bake house till that night, and then she locked me in…"_ And then the whole terrible rehearsal of the things he'd seen, all of it in a stiff, emotionless tone, never once moving his eyes to her as he rattled off the grisly facts. That, she thought, was the most agonizing moment of the whole ordeal. She'd rather he screamed at her, told her he hated her, than that cold, awful distance.

But he never said a word about seeing her and Todd searching him out that night. Perhaps he didn't know, hadn't seen. _Thank God…_

That was the last she'd seen the boy. After the sentencing, she'd kept on trying to catch some word, overhear some snatch of her guards' conversations that might give her some information on the boy's whereabouts; but she'd learned nothing. That lack of knowledge was hardest to bear, she was convinced –

The harsh, cold _clang!_ of a nightstick repeatedly striking the bars jolted her out of her thoughts, and she started, looking toward the solid door, her eyes going to the barred opening near its top. "Oi," the familiar rasp came, followed by the oily face of her guard, Mason, crossed by the narrow shafts of iron in the door. "You got a visitor, beautiful."

_Ah bloody hell, not again…_

Her face turned to the gallows once more – not that it would do any good. She'd just have to endure the jibes till her custodians got bored and left her alone. Actually, she was growing numb to it now…Death would be a relief if it was her only way to escape these filthy excuses for humanity…

"_for the rest of us, death will be a relief…"_

She drew a sharp breath, clenched her teeth against the memory. She didn't want to see his face in her mind.

"So tomorrow is it, eh pretty? Gonna miss you, y'know. You're our favorite. Oi! Farber! Here she is, look. Told you I'd get you in this wing to see her."

_Oh, no…_They'd brought a spectator. Again. Nellie swore the bastards must charge their friends admission to ogle her, like an exhibit in a zoo. _Species Lovett, genus Pie Baker._

"Ahh-ha," came a man's voice, and she heard a thump against the wood of the door; he must be leaning right against it, sticking his ugly face between the bars so his view wouldn't be obstructed. "So you're the one, eh?" he said quietly, his lower-class dialect even more obvious than Nellie's own. "Eleanor Lovett. My, my. Is it true, what they say about ya? Made men into mince and ate 'em up?"

There was a pause, and Nellie could feel his eyes raking over her body, until he hoarsely added, "I'd like to eat _you_ up, my lovely."

The others laughed their heads off at that.

"I'll wager you'd taste scrumptious, oh yes I do," he went on, emphasizing the words by making slurping noises with his lips and teeth.

She ignored him, kept her eyes averted. Wouldn't give them the satisfaction of reacting.

"You was that barber's little whore, weren't ya?"

She smiled at that. Couldn't help it. Man thought he was so bloody clever. Didn't know what a fool he was. Didn't know anything. Didn't know the difference between a whore and a lover. _Pitiful bugger._

"If I could I'd take my friend's key here and have a go at you myself."

"Hey," came Mason's voice once more, quieter now, more sly. "Why not? We can all of us have a quick turn, yeah?"

Fear beat through Nellie's heart at hearing this; but she wondered why. It wasn't as though she'd have to live with the memory; she'd be safe in her anonymous grave in a little more than twenty-four hours…

"But Edington," a third voice hissed – another of her guards, Watling, younger than the others. _Who the bloody hell is Edington?..._ "He's given strict orders – "

"To hell with Edington. I been starin' at this slag's _en-dow-ments_ a bleedin' month solid and restrainin' myself 'cause o' soddin' Edington. What's she gonna do about it, anyhow? Gonna be dead tomorrow. Shame to let all that go to waste, ain't it? And Eddy ain't here right now, is he? Go on, the both of ya enjoy yourselves; I'll keep watch out here. My turn when you're done."

She heard the screech of the key in the lock, the creak of ancient metal as the door swung open, the shuffle of two pairs of shoes crossing the filth-encrusted floor towards her, the hollow _clang_ of the door being pulled shut again behind them, sealing them in with her.

She kept her gaze on the instrument of her liberation. She wouldn't give them the dignity of looking at them. Not all through it.

"Ar" said the newcomer, his voice quaking with his filthy urges, punctuated by the light _chink_ of his belt buckle coming undone. "You're gonna show me what you done for that barber now…You won't mind, will ya…little tart – "

"HERE!"

The voice was so loud it seemed to come from within the cell, to emanate from the very walls. Nellie jumped; her head turned at the sound, and she saw her two "visitors" leap back from her as though the floor had turned to lava. The closest one was scrabbling at his belt, trying to fasten it again and not succeeding.

"Here, Mason! Why are you all alone? Where's Watling?"

"Uhhh," the guard outside stammered. "He's…he went off to relieve himself, sir."

"Without notifying the replacement? You know damn well there are supposed to be _two_ of you on this door at _all times_!"

"Y-yes," Mason went on; and Nellie delighted in hearing the unmanly squeak in his voice. _Probably pissing himself, the rotten cur…_ "I'm sorry, Mr. – Ch-Chief Inspector Edington, sir."

_Chief Inspector…_Now she remembered: Edington, the distinguished-looking, well-dressed, mustachioed fellow who'd questioned her once or twice, and then took the stand for the prosecution…She remembered thinking how detached his testimony had been, as though he had no personal vendetta against her but merely wished to make his findings known…

"Open this door," Edington ordered. "I need to speak with the prisoner."

The two men in Nellie's cell looked to each other, their eyes wide with horror. _Ha!_

"M-m-mister Edington, s-sir – "

"_Open _the _door_, Mason, or I'm afraid I'll need to report you for insubordination."

There was no verbal reply, only the creaking of the door again, followed by the appearance of the chief inspector's impeccable form.

The fury that took possession of Edington's face when he saw Nellie's would-be assailants was nothing short of frightening. His jaw clenched visibly; the vein in his temple throbbed; his fair complexion flooded scarlet; his blue eyes stared and darkened like orbs of cobalt ice. He looked from one man to the other, breathing hard through his nose like a bull about to charge. Nellie fully expected him to scream bloody murder; but when his mouth opened the deep quiet of his tone was far more threatening than any hysterical outburst.

"Watling," he said, in practically a whisper. "I will personally see to it that you are reprimanded appropriately for this outrage, along with your _friend_, John Mason."

Watling said nothing, only stood cowering against the wall.

Edington's eyes shifted to the man closest to Nellie, who was still having problems with his belt.

"Do it up," the chief inspector said softly, "before I take it off and strangle you with it."

But he didn't. Leaving the buckle hanging loose, he edged towards the door, hugging the wall, with Watling close behind. "Ah well, boys," Nellie couldn't help but call after them as they slunk for the exit, cringing from Edington's presence the whole way. "Some other time then, eh? Tomorrow? Got an engagement at nine, but I'm sure I could fit you in after that. Won't put up much of a struggle, I promise," she ended with a wink.

Without a glance in her direction, Edington followed the men out the door, and Nellie could hear him browbeating Mason: "I want you to go and get a relief of two guards for this cell. Inform them that I am not to be disturbed under any circumstances, understand?"

"Yes sir."

"The instant they are stationed here _all three_ of you are to report to the warden and await my arrival. God help you if you do otherwise, am I clear?"

No answer.

"_Move!"_

"Sir!"

Feet pounded down the corridor, their echoes receding rapidly into the distance before Edington re-entered the cell and slowly and calmly shut the door, facing it for a long moment, until Nellie saw his shoulders sink in a measured exhale. "Thank you," she muttered.

He turned casually then, and nodded, his eyes meeting hers. "How often has this happened?"

She shook her head. "First time."

His eyes closed briefly. "I'm relieved to hear it. Please accept my very deepest apologies for suffering this…indignity."

Her eyebrows rose. He must want something, talking to her this way. "And gettin' my neck stretched in front of a pack o' strangers and very dissatisfied former patrons out for my blood – that ain't an indignity?"

He regarded her steadily, in silence; and she turned once more to the window.

"Hear 'em out there, inspector?" she said, almost dreamily, the sough of the mob's collective voice wafting in on the evening breeze. "My adorin' public. Just can't wait to glut 'emselves on my demise. Eat up my death with their eyes, they will." She turned, looking up at Edington with narrowed eyes. "So what's the difference between them and me, hey?"

Her visitor quirked an eyebrow as he crossed the cell, drew up a stool from the corner, and took a seat. "I didn't come here to wax philosophical with you, Mrs. Lovett," he said. "I need to ask you a question."

"For the last time," she sighed, exasperated, "I don't know where he is."

The smallest of smiles lifted the corners of Edington's mouth. "Would you tell me if you did?"

She hated herself for hesitating in her answer, ashamed at the feeling deep within her: as if her heart were being squeezed and twisted in a vise – anguish, like a scorched black pit where all her longing used to reside, instead of the anger she'd been consistently telling herself to feel. Oh, how she loathed Todd: for what he'd done to her, making her believe that he felt something for her; for leaving her alone to take the consequences of their actions while his own wretched neck slipped out of the noose. How she'd rejoice to see him caught, haled before the authorities as she had been, suffer the same indignities, face the same fate – to glance beside her on the gallows and see his profile, hear the crowd demand his destruction as it demanded hers.

And oh, how she loved him…part of her aching for his capture so they would share the same destiny; yearning to see his face at her side in the moment of their deaths so they would end together, embark on their journey to hell together, spend their eternity as one.

And for this, she detested herself almost as much as she detested him.

So, averting her eyes, she answered Edington: "Oh yes."

He nodded slowly. "Well, as it happens, Mrs. Lovett, I'm inclined to believe you."

That made her chuckle. "Well, that's comfortin', dearie. I suppose your tender faith in me will earn me a reprieve."

"It might."

_That_ made her ears perk up. She turned to him, her brows knit, waiting for him to elaborate on this strange comment. But he paused, appearing to chew on his cheeks or tongue as though searching out the right words in his mind.

"I'm a well-connected man, Mrs. Lovett," he said at last. "I can, on occasion, collect certain debts – remind certain persons of favors owed, that kind of thing. There is, perhaps, something I could do in this…situation. You're aware of the war in America, I take it?"

Where the bloody hell had _that_ come from?...Nellie blinked, flustered, and shook her head. She remembered serving a gentleman from New York on business in London some months before, and overhearing his talk with some acquaintances on the conflict in his homeland. "Uh…only vaguely," she replied.

"You've heard that the Confederate States of America – the CSA – want Britain to come to their aid."

_Where the hell is all this going?..._"No," she said, growing impatient now. "No I didn't; but wh – "

"Well, there's some debate as to how the Crown should respond. There is substantial and powerful support for our involvement, due to trade considerations and such – we did build two warships for the CSA last year, and several blockade runners continue to operate under the private enterprise of English merchants. Despite the profit to be gained through an alliance, though, no one wants to declare war against the Federal government of the United States. And then of course there's the fact that the CSA is a nation continuing to base its economy in the use of slave labor – an institution which the Crown, of course, hesitates to support through continued commerce." He broke off, smiling easily, as though speaking with an equal. "You see our dilemma."

She did; but the troubles of the government that was about to execute her really didn't elicit her concern or sympathy. "Beg your pardon, inspector, but what's all this got to do with – "

"Well, we are in need of…intelligence in this matter. We need accurate information from the point of origin. We need persons to supply certain information. In particular, your…skills…might prove quite valuable in such an endeavor. The times can provide opportunity for those accomplished in…deception."

His eyes were actually twinkling, an almost boyish mischief playing across his features as he spoke. It began to dawn on Nellie that he was trying to do her a favor…and not because he thought she was innocent. He was taking advantage of her guilt.

He was asking her to be a spy.

_Bloody hell._

This was unreal. Like something out of a cheap serial. "You're jokin'," she said.

Edington braced his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. "I assure you, Mrs. Lovett," he countered quietly, "I am in deadly earnest."

Her pulse began to race. He was offering her a way out, a chance to keep breathing…but death was what she wanted – a release from Todd's sentence, his wish that she live long to bear the punishment he'd decreed for her…Confusion ripped through her mind; she didn't know what she wanted anymore, her thoughts were beginning to freeze…

"Why…why me?" she asked softly, her brain numbing by the moment.

The chief inspector's moustache twitched. "In less than twenty-four hours your life will end. I simply feel that it would be a terrible waste if your talents were to simply vanish when they could be put to such profitable use. And…who knows but that you may, somehow, end up leading us to Todd, even without realizing it. You should know that we've been doing our damnedest to prevent a massive manhunt; the last thing we want is to run the man to earth by having every blasted copper from here to Calcutta looking for him. If you accept this offer, he may just feel safe and confident enough to come out into the open and attempt to seek you out at some point, if only to eliminate a liability to his own security." He spread his hands, as if stating a fact that should be obvious. "None of these very desirable things can happen if you're dead, my good madam."

Through the fog of her stunned mental state, she managed to remark, "I cooked men's flesh, inspector…surely, as a man of the law, you…object to that; surely you agree with the court's sentence on me…you did testify for the prosecution, after all…"

"Oh," he shrugged, glancing almost shyly to the floor, "I certainly think you deserve the gallows, Mrs. Lovett. But my ultimate service is to my country. I must choose my priorities; and just at this moment I choose the best course for the kingdom. We are at a critical juncture in our international affairs; and it's the very nature of your crimes, the fact that you were able to conduct them for so long without detection, that makes you eminently suited to this task."

He raised his eyes to her once more. "I'll need an answer before I leave this cell, Mrs. Lovett."

She swallowed. She couldn't quite bring herself to believe that he was serious; something about this felt like a cruel prank. "What about _them_?" she asked, jerking her head towards the window and the continuous din of the ever-present mob. "They ain't gonna like bein' denied their fun."

A conspiratorial smile creased the chief inspector's face. "Prisoners die in Newgate all the time, Mrs. Lovett, as I'm sure you're aware. By God, the fetid stench alone would be enough to kill a man…"

When she'd first arrived, Nellie would have agreed emphatically with that; now she barely noticed it anymore. "You get used to it, I suppose."

Edington ignored this and went on: "In this case your 'death' would not be from natural causes. The…poor excuses for men who were stationed at your door – what they threatened you, they've actually carried out to others."

"Good Lord…"

"I've only been waiting for my opportunity to give them their just deserts; and the warden is weary of prisoners being…abused to death on his watch. I can go out there as soon as I leave you and announce to the good people of London that you've departed this world at the hands of your own guards. They need never know the truth. And Mason and his chums will swing from the platform that was prepared for you."

And for the first time in her life, Nellie Lovett was utterly speechless.

The man was serious. He wouldn't invent something like that – executing three men in her place.

_But…_

What would happen when her task was done – or when the war ended? When the government had no further use for her? Back to the same cell, the same sentence?...

"I won't be used, Mr. Edington," she said. "What's in all this for me?"

He grinned. "Handsome monetary compensation…and a full pardon, which I can draft in writing for you. There is only one condition…and with your astute mind, I'm certain you can work out what that is."

Oh yes, she knew. She could never return to England.

"Don't think that'll be a problem, inspector," she said.

All that remained was her decision.

One more time, she looked to the site of her impending death…the nightmare images flashed through her mind all over again: the mob getting hold of her, ripping her to pieces, tearing her flesh from her bones with their bare hands…and teeth…

And then there was Todd.

Every time his face arose in her thoughts, the echo of his voice in her ears, the memory of his touch on her skin, she struggled to understand her own reaction: a strange, alien blend of yearning and wrath, alternately pining for his presence and fervently wishing him a very slow and painful departure from this world. At such times Nellie Lovett both longed to forget and fought to hold on to these remnants of her life, and had become convinced that only her own death, however unwelcome in other respects, would cure her of the ceaseless heat and fever of this battle. But now, she suddenly realized that she wasn't about to take the entire brunt, go marching off to oblivion all alone. She wouldn't die unless _he_ was there, and she could claw his eyes out (_or wrap my arms around him – yes, latch onto him and never let go_) while both of them were being dragged down to hell together. She knew that Edington was subtly asking her to keep an ear out for news of the fugitive barber – if her cooperation with the government might somehow help in his discovery, so much the better…

She couldn't be sure of her own motives for this desire – had no idea what she might do if she encountered him again, if he were to walk through the door that very moment. She only knew that her mind couldn't shake him off, that she'd never have peace until she confronted him.

All these thoughts combined to spur her on – made her determine that she was going to do everything in her power to get out of this. Nothing to live for? Nonsense.

But there was one more thing…one person she needed to take care of. Quite literally. And he was only one more reason to get the hell out – to keep on living. If she could take advantage of Edington's offer in order to save him too…

"I have a condition of my own, inspector."

"Oh?" he asked, looking intrigued.

"The boy," she said quietly. "Toby Ragg."

Edington nodded slowly. "He was sent to a workhouse after the trial, madam."

Her heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. Regardless of how much her adoptive son might hate her, she loved him; and she couldn't – wouldn't – allow him to languish. Enough damage had been done him by the discovery of her crimes; she wouldn't let it be worsened by more years of hopelessness in such a terrible place…

"He comes with me," she said, in a tone that showed she would brook no refusal.

Edington blinked rapidly – Nellie suspected she'd flustered him. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure that will be possible – "

"Make it possible."

The chief inspector shook his head condescendingly. "That…isn't part of the agreement…it would be highly irregular…in the position and situations you'll find yourself in the boy could prove to be a serious liability; he could easily hamper any – "

"He's a clever lad," Nellie jumped in "– more than I give him credit for, at first – he can do his part too, I can promise you that. He can pose as my natural son." And under her breath, she added, "Wouldn't be much of a stretch."

Edington was still shaking his head; she could tell she was reaching him, but he needed a push. "Think about it, inspector – a woman traveling alone, arriving alone in a very shaky political situation? Might look suspicious. Who'd suspect a little widow with a young lad in tow? Look a lot more innocent, don't you think?"

The chief inspector rubbed his hands together, letting out a long breath through his nose, and Nellie hoped all this meant that he was considering her proposal. Finally, he nodded slowly and said, "You may have a good point there. Very well. I'll do everything I can."

Her purpose accomplished, Nellie nodded, sighing deeply. _Well. That's it, then._

"All right, inspector," she said. "Take me out of here."

She thought she heard something like triumph in Edington's voice as he rose and said, "A very wise decision. From this evening, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, Eleanor Lovett will be dead."

***************

Sweeney Todd hadn't thought about that night for a long time.

But now, as he stood sipping his bourbon (a strange beverage – his host had told him it was a kind of whiskey, but it didn't taste quite like any whiskey Todd had ever encountered) by the window of Lieutenant Rory O'Bannon's tiny office at the center of command for the CS Army presence at Galveston, he could picture it all over again, as though it had happened only a few days ago.

The Confederate officer was shaking his head in amazement, his familiar grin lighting up his chiseled Gaelic features. "I still can't believe it," he was saying, his brogue just as strong as Todd remembered. "Every law of God and man says you ought to be dead right now, Barker."

_I am._ Another swig of the burning liquor slithered down Todd's throat.

"How in God's name did you manage it?" O'Bannon asked. "When you went overboard we lost sight of you, gave you up…"

Not that they would have stopped for him anyway. The agreement was to keep going, no matter what happened, or to whom. Better for one man to be lost than put all of them at risk. Todd could almost smell the brine, even now…feel the waves swamping the boat, washing over him, feel the rocking of the small cutter beneath his feet, as he struggled frantically to take in the sail…Mackenzie by his side, wrongfully imprisoned, just like Barker, only seventeen years old…

Now, standing in the day's last light that poured like spun gold through O'Bannon's window, Todd told the Irishman what had happened after the wave had taken him off his feet and swept him into the deep, carried him out to the open sea…how he'd clung to broken, floating bits of the stolen ship as a makeshift raft until Anthony Hope discovered him, half dead from dehydration, and brought him aboard the _Bountiful_. The lieutenant listened in fascination, exclaiming at appropriate junctures, until Todd fell silent. "Jaysus," he muttered when the tale ended with the barber's arrival in London.

"What about the others?" Todd asked after a time, attempting to preempt any discussion of the events that transpired after his return to Fleet Street.

O'Bannon shook his head. "Gone, friend. I almost didn't make it myself. We lost Rourke that same night you left us, and Mackenzie followed soon after from…somethin' that made his piss bloody and his teeth loose. Had to kill Peterson with my own hands when he went mad from too much sun, and Arnsby…I woke up one morning and he was just gone. Couldn't crew the damned thing all by myself. I was only just lucky to make it to the Sandwich Islands before she broke up altogether." He refilled his glass. "You and me, Barker…we're all that's left of the trusties."

_The trusties_…men at once ruthless enough and trustworthy enough to be taken into the confidence of the colony's authorities, given responsibility for overseeing work details, meting out punishments, granting and revoking privileges, reporting infractions of the colony's unique laws, pursuing escapees. After Barker had suffered enough whippings and…other abuses, O'Bannon, the unofficial leader of this privileged band, had taken note of his plight and helped him become a trusty himself. And then…oh, then…The authorities never discovered who'd been responsible for the rash of mutilations – and the one throat-slitting – that had occurred since Barker had won that esteemed position. The barber's fellow trusties kept their lips sealed except to provide him with alibis; and truth be told, the guards liked things better with certain men out of their way. A real investigation was never undertaken.

Trusties were given more and better food than the other prisoners, had better living quarters and a small ration of rum once a month.

Trusties were also well-placed to find out certain bits of information. Such as the impending arrival of a small cutter bearing supplies, moored overnight to allow its crew to rest before going on to Tasmania.

Six of these men – Barker, O'Bannon, Rourke, Peterson, Mackenzie, Arnsby – had made the plan. No one suspected them. No one asked questions until their dead-of-night departure was discovered at dawn. Ships were sent out in search of them; but the group always managed to evade capture. The cutter was fast and small and stayed one step ahead, island-hopping through Oceania, finding cover in unlikely places, trying to throw off the pursuers.

Until the storm.

"Sweeney Todd," O'Bannon said reflectively. "Think that's the most original one I've heard. Sweeney was my grandmother's maiden name, you know, God rest her soul" – here he raised his glass to the ceiling.

"Speakin' o' names – you never changed yours," the barber remarked.

O'Bannon shrugged. "No need to. Not like I was goin' back into the lion's den. Like you." He sipped his bourbon, twirled the glass in his hand, watched the liquid swirl for a moment. "I'm…assuming you never found your family. Wouldn't be here if you had, would you?"

Todd looked away. "They were gone when I got there," he said.

No need to go into detail.

O'Bannon heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry. I know what it's like…"

_Oh yes…that's right…he would…_Todd had a hard time believing that anyone could experience the same depth of agony he himself had been subject to; but he had to admit that O'Bannon came close…

The Irishman rose and crossed to the barber then, clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Life goes on, Barker."

Todd snorted a bitter, barking laugh at that.

"No, no, I mean it. Doesn't feel that way now, but…Trust me, there _is_ somethin' else you can give yourself to…the Cause. It might not be _your_ cause, but…it might help you find one. Yeah?" he finished, giving Todd's shoulder a little encouraging shake.

Todd turned, frowning, to his former comrade. "Cause?"

O'Bannon nodded. "Made my way to Cuba eventually – long story that, how I managed it isn't important – put my back into workin' a sugar plantation for a bit. Plan was to seduce the owner's daughter, take the place for myself. Didn't quite work out that way." Then, a corner of his mouth quirking, he held up a finger and proceeded to unfasten the top few buttons of his grey uniform shirt, revealing the ugly scar of a bullet on his shoulder. "Her father clipped a wing as I ran for my life."

His face grew serious as he continued. "Then I learned about this – opportunity. CSA has a strong presence in Cuba, always tryin' to drum up support. Heard that many of Erin's sons were joinin' this conflict on one side or the other…well, there was really only one option for me at that point." He regarded Todd with burning eyes, his voice fierce: "We're learnin', all of us…how to raise troops and command 'em, how to make an ally out o' whatever kind of America emerges from all this. We're learnin' how to fight – how to mount a proper resistance, conduct a real war. To bring it all back home and take our country back again, a sovereign nation, shake the foreign crown off Ireland's head forever."

Todd smirked. "Still dreamin' of a free Ireland."

O'Bannon relaxed, even chuckled a bit. "Nothin' personal, friend. Not like _you_ lined my family up and shot 'em all in the back o' the head."

He watched Todd for a long moment, through narrowed eyes, as though appraising him. "So you see, I've found my cause. What're _you_ lookin' for, Barker?"

Slowly, Todd turned to face his companion, and it was a long moment before he said, "If you ever call me that name again, O'Bannon, I will tear your tongue from your head."

The lieutenant grinned – perhaps the only man on earth who would, in the face of such a threat, delivered by such a man. "I believe it. Fair enough, then."

Todd turned back to the window, gazing out on the sun-washed evening, the horizon blazing purple and orange over the gleaming waters of the gulf. Without warning, and quite without his consent, his mind wandered across that sea, and he wondered if his daughter was traveling the oceans of the world at that very moment, with her sailor…and his thoughts went further on, to London, to that accursed pit where the remains of his precious wife had been so cheaply discarded…to a porcelain face framed by locks of dark fire, and the deepest, most expressive eyes he'd ever seen – he wondered what had become of her, and for an instant he nearly stopped breathing.

_What am I looking for?..._

Anything that might put an end to this haunting of his mind, silence the sweet voice that insisted on resounding through his restless dreams. Anything that might bring him some measure of peace.

From the moment he'd left Fleet Street, he could think of only one thing that would accomplish this; and that conviction had only grown stronger during his voyage to America.

"Death, O'Bannon," he said simply. "That's all I'm lookin' for."

The lieutenant nodded, smiling, as though he understood. He didn't try to talk Todd out of it. He only said, very softly, "It's a fine line between courage and foolishness, but either one'll get you killed if you push on long enough and far enough. If it's death you're after, plenty of men have found it already, in the Army of Northern Virginia. And there's always room for men like you."

"Can you get me in?" Todd asked instantly, surprising even himself with the undercurrent of desperation infusing his voice.

O'Bannon extended his hand formally, a cryptic glint in his eye. "Welcome to the First Texas Infantry…Sweeney Todd."

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, now for some explanations:

_Cutter_ = a small, light, fast vessel that could travel the open ocean.

_Sandwich Islands_ = 19th century name for Hawai'i.

_Tasmania_ = For those of you who know it was originally called Van Diemen's Land: I SO wanted to call it that, but Tasmania was the name by 1862.

_Cuba_ = The CSA tried to annex Cuba in the 1840s but it fell through. But apparently there was still some influence back and forth during the American Civil War, with Cubans joining the CS armed forces and such.

The stuff about the existence of trusties in corrective institutions, and the Irish presence in and motives for joining the war on both sides, are all accurate. There was a great deal of foreign enlistment in the War Between the States.

Botched hangings of the nature that Nellie fears really happened *shudder*

As far as I can tell, children were allowed to testify in court at this period of time, if they were deemed competent and if they knew the moral nature and consequences of oath-taking.

The First Texas was a regiment of the Texas Brigade, which was part of the Army of Northern Virginia. Confusing, I know; but that's the way it was ;)

**PLEASE REVIEW!** I feel like something is missing in this chapter and I'm not sure what it is...

* * *


	5. First Casualties

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

**A/N:** Hello again. Sorry this has taken so long - I must have written three or four different versions of this chapter, and actually I'm still not happy with it...It's a transitional chapter, and I always have a hard time with those to begin with. Anyway, here it is :)

Thanks to all who've read, reviewed, and subscribed. You give me the encouragement to go on with this project when I run across a tough chapter like this :)

* * *

**5**

**First Casualties.**

_Nellie sat staring into the merrily crackling fire, one hand absently toying with a corkscrew lock at her temple, the other holding the stem of a glass of red wine – yes, wine, _quality_ wine, not the poor-man's gin she'd tolerated for too many nights to count – her eyes dreamily unfocused, her mind playing over the whirlwind that was her life during the past three weeks. A small smile graced her lips unbidden as she pondered it: so many years of sameness, and change coming so rapidly – an eternity of emptiness, and fulfillment appearing within her grasp so suddenly._

I couldn't be happier,_ the thought bubbled spontaneously to the surface of her mind. _

_Then she corrected herself. That wasn't quite true. She very well could be happier, she told herself, her smile widening. Granted, Mr. Todd was home at long last – she'd had some work, at first, convincing herself of that reality, that it wasn't another dream after all. But the very day after his arrival, she'd awakened to the sound of his steps reverberating on her bedroom ceiling, and she lay still for a quarter of an hour just listening to his movements, close to crying with joy. _Mr. Todd…_she'd surprised herself by her readiness to accept his new identity; she hadn't even come close to calling him "Mr. Barker", not once. _Sweeney Todd…_it felt right somehow, as soon as the sound of it landed on her ears. It suited him. And he – this new man he'd become – seemed to suit her, better than she'd even thought he could have done in his old life, as Barker. _

_But she worried for him. He was so sullen and silent, and his temper was so quick to erupt at the slightest provocation – indeed, sometimes from no provocation at all, that she could discern. She knew that prison could change a man – utterly break even the most willful mind, ruin the strongest constitution. She'd heard that, in some cases, men who'd served their time and been released never spoke of what they'd endured while incarcerated. All the same, she burned to know – wanted so badly for him to trust her enough to confide in her…she imagined it sometimes: he would come into the parlor one night and wordlessly approach her, settle himself close beside her on the settee, lean his beautiful head on her ready shoulder…she would gently, soothingly stroke that glorious sable mane of his while he murmured his tormenting memories into her skin…then she would shush him and tell him it was all right, that she was there for him,_ _to comfort him…in whatever way he needed…_

_Perhaps some day – she told herself – that fond vision would come true. In the meantime, he was home and safe, and that was all that mattered. _

_And it wasn't as though she didn't have reason to hope, she reminded herself. She had _ample_ reason._

_The time she'd spent with him during that first week…she'd been nearly delirious with happiness, simply knowing he was near, separated from him no longer by oceans but only the negligible barriers of wood and plaster. And she made certain to take full and unapologetic advantage of those occasions when she could be in the same room with him, attempting to contrive such a situation whenever possible – for example, her suggestion that they work together to put the upper story in order for business before staging Todd's public challenge of Pirelli. Todd had been reluctant to change anything at first: when Nellie had suggested that their first task should be to strip the decaying wallpaper, his face had fallen. "What is it?" she'd asked; and after a thoughtful moment he'd replied, frowning and glancing out the window, "Lucy chose this wallpaper."_

_Nellie had sighed and said, as gently as she could, suppressing her immediate urge to scream in frustration at the sound of his wife's name: "Dear, I understand; but look at it. It's fallin' off the walls as it is. Not very professional, is it? D'you think gentlemen'll recommend you, seein' this? How can you make a name for yourself runnin' such a shoddy establishment?"_

_He hadn't responded._

"_D'you think the judge'll be likely to come in here if word gets 'round that Sweeney Todd's Tonsorial Parlor is in such a state?"_

_That had grabbed his attention. He'd turned to her, his eyes burning; but after a beat his look softened, and he shook his head. "No," he'd muttered._

"_All right then," she'd said. "Look, if you want I'll take down all the paper and you can polish up the bureau and do the floor."_

_He'd sighed heavily, but began to slowly tear brittle strips from the nearest wall in reply. Nellie was glad that her back was turned to him, because she had to bite her lips together to conceal the smile on her face as she relished the irony in the action, wishing that the past could disintegrate so easily, indulging a fantasy that stripping this wallpaper was somehow stripping Lucy Barker away, in little bits at a time. It took quite a while to get all the stuff off, despite Mr. Todd's cooperation…the ancient paper practically crumbled to dust in their hands, and Nellie had chattered on as they worked. To her great happiness, Todd didn't seem to mind. He'd even graced her with a response every once in a while, curt though it may have been. When she didn't hear his voice, the sound of ripping paper had assured her of his continued presence. "Sorry, Mr. T," she'd said once, when he'd been pointedly silent for some time. "I know I go on, but it's been so long since I had anyone to talk to, you know…"_

"'_S all right," he'd mumbled. "There weren't much worth talkin' about in the colony. Nor men worth talkin' to. 'S why I don't talk much anymore, I suppose."_

_Her heart had jumped at that, and she'd had to force herself not to press him for more. At last he'd volunteered something, shared something of his life with her; and although it was only a small part of himself, it was enough to send her over the moon. She only wished she could tell him how she'd passed her own time while he'd been gone – not all of it, of course, but how she'd pined for him, thought of him every day, every moment, with every breath. But she knew she couldn't. Not yet. _

_And then – she breathed deep as she thought of it now, basking in the glow of her hearth fire, as though inhaling the very memory itself – there had been that day...was it really two weeks ago?...it felt like just this afternoon…_

_She was still half-dizzy from it. If she closed her eyes, shut off the outside world, sank into herself, she could still feel everything, down to the briefest sensations, the torrent of feelings that had assaulted her as Todd had caught her up in a tuneless waltz, one of her long-cherished dreams coming abruptly, almost surreally, to life…When she'd seen him cross the room towards her, his steps so firm and purposeful, his handsome face wearing that small, sly smirk – when he'd said _"How I've lived without you all these years, I'll never know…"_ just as though he really meant those words – she'd nearly stopped breathing; when his hand had touched hers, drawing her close to him, a jolt had gone through her like the crackle of lightning. She hadn't lived till that moment, hadn't known what it was to be alive until she was in his arms. She was terrified – and hopeful – that he'd feel the mad pounding of her heart, that he'd notice the adoration darkening her eyes as he looked into them for the first time…_Please see it, _she'd silently begged him. _See how I love you and want you and would do anything, give anything, be anything for you… _And when at last they'd come to a stop, trying to catch their breath, Nellie's mind and heart still reeling, her skin still shivering from his touch, he'd turned to her, his lips quirked in an eerie way that would have sent anyone but Nellie Lovett running for the door, his onyx eyes fixed intently on her own, and with a harsh _thunk!_ buried his cleaver into a nearby tabletop, the suddenness and brutal energy of his action making her jump._

"_Nellie," he'd said._

_What little breath remained to her was stolen by the sound of his voice pronouncing that name. As though the last few minutes hadn't been sufficiently blissful. She wasn't one to faint – inured to hardship as she was, she couldn't afford such traditional feminine delicacies – but she wondered how she'd been able to keep standing, how she hadn't swooned. "Nellie," he'd rasped again, stepping closer, never glancing away, looking right down into her. _

_She could only smile at him, utterly incapable of responding. It was almost too much to bear._

"_Eleanor," he'd gone on, his smirk slowly fading. "That's your name."_

"_Yes, Mr. Todd," she'd finally managed._

_He'd nodded slowly. "I remember now." His eyes traveled over her face in a way that made her inexplicably nervous, set her trembling all over. She'd never responded this way to anyone – no man had ever made her tremble, unless it was Barker. But this…this feeling coursing through her was more intense even than anything she'd ever experienced when she'd been near the barber of fifteen years ago. It was just silly, she thought, to react this way – a grown woman, and no innocent flower at that…but in that moment, nothing in her past mattered._ _It barely even existed. She felt as though this man, the one standing before her at this moment, was the only one who'd ever laid eyes on her in any way that meant something. She suddenly realized that she was breathing in his scent, he was so near; she felt her knees weaken and surreptitiously grasped the back of a nearby chair – he was leaning over her, his head bent, so close it would have taken only the most incremental turn of her head to press her cheek to his._

_Her eyes closed. She knew that her breath was quickening; it couldn't be more obvious, he had to be aware of it…She longed to grasp his hand and press it to her heart and tell him, _Feel that, that's you doing that to me…

"_Room's still spinnin', dear," she'd said – chiefly as a means of occupying her mouth so she wouldn't use it to capture his lips in the kiss she could almost taste. Not because she had qualms, certainly not – but because, even now, even in the midst of this opiate euphoria, she had the sense to be afraid, and her fear won over her desire. She feared that her timing might be wrong, and if she forced anything before he was ready, she'd lose him irrevocably._

Wait, _she told herself silently._ Wait, Nell. You were able to wait fifteen years, you can wait a bit longer…Don't throw away your entire future for a little moment of pleasure. It wouldn't be worth it. Don't be a fool.

_Unable to resist seeing his expression, she opened her eyes – she couldn't read the jumble of emotions playing across his face; his brow was furrowed as though in confusion, his jaw clenched as though in anger, his eyes blacker than she'd ever seen with something she couldn't define. _What a sodding chameleon,_ she thought: his moods as mercurial as the phases of the moon, he'd gone from devilish playfulness to solemn silence to withdrawing once more into his adamantine shell in a matter of moments._

"_What is it?" she asked, her voice small and quiet._

_But the moment melted away – she watched him draw back and retreat from her, his scowl deepening as he headed for the door. "We'll get started tomorrow," he said over his shoulder. "I'll be careful to take strangers and the like." And she was left cold, collapsing into the chair she was holding on to, shaking with disappointed longing._

_Now, lounging on the settee in her parlor, wearing the first new dress she'd owned in years (she'd thought of him as she'd put it on, wondered if he'd silently notice it, if she'd see a change in his eyes when he looked at her), she dared to allow the belief that he'd been treating her differently since that afternoon – the pet names, the little smirks, the odd remark here and there ("I never could do it without you, my dear"), the – she felt a pleasant kind of chill at the thought – touches of his hand on her shoulder as he brushed by her. She knew, from the glint in his eyes when she caught him glancing at her from his landing, that she'd gained his respect – even his admiration, strictly professional though it may be. (_For the moment._) It was these little things that let her know she'd made the right decision. Even if her plan hadn't resulted in the sudden flow of new income, good clothing, and decent food, it had won her the trust of the man she loved enough to, rather literally, kill for._

_There were so many reasons to be grateful to him. He'd given her back her work. He was giving her, every day, more reason to indulge her dreams of the life she could have with him. And because of him, she had Toby. She couldn't stifle a little chuckle as her thoughts went to the lad, currently sleeping in the little back pantry they'd converted to a makeshift bedroom – no bigger than a closet, really; but the boy had been thrilled to death with it. He was just like the son Nellie had always wished she could have. Pirelli, the bloody cur – he'd gotten no more than he deserved, treating that child like a whipping-post…_

_She had reasons now – real reasons, not just insubstantial hopes – to get out of bed in the morning._

_And one of them was this moment heading down the passage from her shop, towards the parlor door –_

_At the sound of his footsteps she gave her head a little shake, rousing herself from her musings; and a moment later the curtain moved and he appeared, hovering just beyond the archway, hesitant._

"_Mrs. Lovett," he said, his voice sepulchral, like some being of night emerging from a mausoleum._

_She smiled, her cheerful response starkly contrasting his morose demeanor. "Mr. Todd! This is a pleasure. Come down for a drink, have you?" This was another thing he'd been doing of late: coming down after he closed his shop for the day, every few nights, and sitting with her – not close, but in the same room, and for Nellie that was enough for the present – enjoying a quiet drink. Sometimes he even remarked on the improving quality of the alcohol. Sometimes he asked what she remembered of Lucy, or requested a reminiscence of the old days. He said his memory wasn't very clear, and he wanted to remember, because memory was keeping him alive. And Nellie would happily comply, skillfully steering her tales away from a focus on Lucy Barker and towards things the four of them had done together, emphasizing scenes of Mr. Todd – as Barker, of course – and herself._ "And remember when we went to the music-hall, the four of us, and you and me had too much to drink, and Lucy and Albert had to practically carry us home?...And remember when you and me run into each other at that book shop and saw that greatstack o' books crash down on that bloke's head, and the owner tossed us out 'cause we were laughin' so hard?...

_She was careful to make it always_ You and me, Mr. Todd…you and me…

_Outside of these diversions into the past he seemed to value so highly, Todd maintained his characteristic silence; and sometimes Nellie would cease speaking to share in that silence, because in a way it was sharing an aspect of him._

_She cherished these times, and hoped to enjoy another tonight. She was already rising and heading to the liquor cabinet, smoothing down her skirt (to luxuriate in the feel of the fine fabric, and to see if her action would draw her beloved's attention), when Todd stepped into the room, saying "No, pet. I only wanted to give you this," as he reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a plain white envelope, extending his hand towards her. _

"_What's this?" she asked, taking it from him._

"_What I promised you."_

_She gave him a questioning look, but he only jerked his head at the envelope in her hand. She turned it over and found that it wasn't sealed, and un-tucking the flap she discovered several pound-notes within._

"_Rent," he explained simply._

_She didn't know whether to thank him for this lovely gesture, or cry at the thought that he continued holding on to a view of their partnership as a mere business arrangement and nothing more. She simply didn't know where she stood with him anymore, didn't know what to make of his_ _behavior. The man was a bloody walking cipher. "Oh, Mr. Todd," she protested casually, closing the envelope and offering it back to him. "You don't have to do this."_

_His face darkened. "We agreed that I'd pay you when I could. Now I can. I'm not livin' on your charity."_

_Her eyes shot to his._ Oh, Mr. Todd…if only you understood… _"You're not," she insisted. "I just…well, you're a friend." _

_He glared at her. "Take the damn money."_

_Obviously, a different tack was called for. So she lowered her eyes and closed the small distance between them – cautiously; she knew how to approach him by now – and said "Mr. Todd," in the most calming tone she could muster, lifting a hand to toy with his waistcoat buttons. "You're already payin' me rent, love."_

"_How d'you mean?" he said, his breath gently ruffling her hair as he spoke; and she knew by the easing of the edge in his voice that she was reaching him. But this, she had learned from past experience, was a volatile moment: her words could calm him just as easily as launch him into a rage. Delicacy was called for. _

_She continued to finger the fastenings of his waistcoat as she answered, her mind running riot with images of the buttons coming open, her hand moving to the soft white material of his shirt, her fingertips reaching through the gaps to brush the skin of his chest…Her heart was in her throat as she answered, "Well, you're providin' the material for my business, aren't you? Givin' me the means to make my livelihood. So we can just call it an exchange o' services." _

_He exhaled a long breath through his nose, and she felt him tense. "We agreed – " _

"_Come on, Mr. T," she said, gently tucking the envelope back into the pocket he'd taken it from, letting her hand linger on the fabric. "It's a completely fair exchange."_

_He didn't protest. _

_She stopped speaking._

_Neither of them moved._

_Nellie knew she ought to separate from him; but she couldn't, though she had no further excuse to continue touching him, lingering near him like this. It was becoming increasingly difficult to pull herself away when he was near. _

_But she noticed that he wasn't attempting to leave, either._

_Tentatively (_careful, Nell, do not muck this up, do not lose him_), her hand left his pocket and lifted to his chest, flattening gingerly over his heart. Her eyelids fell closed…she tried and failed to suppress a sigh when she felt the steady knock against her palm…what she wouldn't give to stay like this forever, his warmth flowing through her hands, binding her to him…_

_But she felt his fingers wrap firmly around her wrists, pushing her hands off of him, and her eyes opened to meet his. "I can't give you what you want, Mrs. Lovett," he said softly._

Damn it all to bloody hell. _She'd gone too far._

_She drew a breath to collect herself, willing him to stay in the room, not to run away from this. "What's that, Mr. Todd?"_

_His eyes flicked to the rug, his jaw working soundlessly for a moment, as though he were mining his brain for the right words; and his answer, when it came at last, was hesitant, simple though it was. "I can't forget," he said. "Not ever."_

_Nellie's heart twisted, and her voice was quiet but harsh when she spoke. "I were married once too, you know."_

_Todd's brow creased. "What's that got to do with – "_

"_He's dead," she went on. "He's gone. I'm a widow, Mr. Todd. I'm free to – "_ Careful! _" – be with another man, if I choose to. And you're free too."_

_She wondered how she'd never noticed how ravaged his face really was – now, for the first time, she could see the weariness of his soul, the slow erosion of his spirit stamped on his features by the tortures that still kept him in their barbed grip. "I'll never be free, my dear," he said; and the sorrow in his voice, the bitterness in his mockery of a smile, made her ache for him. It was worse, she thought, to watch him go through this than it would be to experience it herself. She hated the helplessness, the powerlessness she felt, not knowing what to do for him – or rather, not knowing how to convince him to accept her comfort. _

_If she'd thought for a single instant that correcting her lie of omission about his wife's fate might cure him, she'd have done it in less than the blink of an eye. But such a notion never occurred to her – the very idea that he might need anyone or anything other than Eleanor Lovett would have been preposterous, and it never entered her mind. _

"_I wish I could take it from you," she whispered, and truly meant it. "Whatever it is…I wish I could suffer it instead." She paused, weighing the wisdom of the words she wanted to speak, before deciding to speak them. "I know you still love your Lucy – " _

"_Yes," he interrupted her. "I always will. But it's not only that. Not all of it."_

Not all about honoring Lucy's memory? _That was a shock. A pleasant one, but still…She'd been reading him wrong; and now she began to wonder exactly what she was facing here._

"_You don't have to bear it alone, love," she breathed, encouraged by his admission, leaning further into him now. "You don't have to…wake from your nightmares and be all alone in the dark. Neither one of us do. Not anymore."_

_He was starting to tremble slightly, his gaze still fixed on his shoes. "You don't know what you're askin'."_

"_Don't I? I think I know you very well indeed, Sweeney Todd."_

"_There are…things…you _don't _know," he whispered darkly._

"_Tell me then, dear," Nellie coaxed softly, consumed by a need to console him, reaching up to caress his pale cheek –_

_The instant her fingers touched his face, a bestial snarl, the guttural protest of a threatened wild animal, tore from his throat – his eyes went impossibly wide as his whole body tensed and sprung aside, twisting away from her, quaking with primal fury. Nellie's hand flew to her heart as she started and gasped in fear, watching him seethe in the shadows of the room, his neck contorted at an unnatural angle to hide his face from her sight._

_Long minutes, it seemed, ticked by, the silence congealing in the air around them till it almost hummed. Nellie's flesh was crawling as in the presence of some loathsome thing, as though whatever horror had seized Todd's mind had somehow taken invisible form and was lurking in the room, a black monster chuckling to itself, reveling in its hold on the man, rejoicing that it had come between them, robbing the barber of the only source of peace he might have._

"_Sweet Jesus," she muttered._

_Todd fully turned his back to her then, and growled, "Never touch my face again." _

_She swallowed, feeling her heart slowly returning to its normal state; but she still couldn't speak. _

_Slowly, Todd reached into his pocket and, once more, drew out the envelope containing the money she'd refused. "Keep this," he said, carefully placing the envelope on the bottom shelf of the liquor cabinet, near to hand. "It's no more than I owe you."_

"_Mr. T, I don't want – "_

"_Go and…buy somethin' you've always wanted."_

"_All right," she said, managing valiantly to keep her voice even._

_Todd moved quickly to the door then – stopped with his hand on the curtain, and half-turned; but his face was in shadow and Nellie could only make out the silhouette of his profile. "I noticed," he said._

"_Noticed what?"_

_But he was already gone, melted into the shadows, his receding footsteps falling lightly on the boards of the shop floor._

*****************

**August, 1862**

_Tap tap tap._

Nellie blinked: the sound roused her from her daydreaming, and her eyes focused once more on the view of Boston beyond the window of her room at the Parker Hotel. Her benefactor Edington had made the arrangements, and she'd been impressed. He certainly was sparing no expense – almost as though he was trying, inexplicably, to get into her good graces. Nellie didn't quite trust this – she didn't like the chief inspector's behaving as if he owed her any favors, rather than the other way around. Still, whatever his motive, her current situation was certainly preferable to dangling at the end of a rope outside Newgate Prison.

She'd fallen to pondering this situation as she gazed on this new city in this new world, this new life…and gradually, insidiously, other thoughts had stolen in on her, until they completely took over her mind. She sighed deeply: all she wanted to do was to forget about Todd, bloody damnable wretched _cursed_ Todd; and all she could do was remember him, dream of him. She'd been doing admirably, she thought, allowing his treatment of her on that final night to fester resentment in her heart. But there were times…too many times –

_Tap tap tap._

She'd forgotten there was someone at the door. She cleared her throat and called out "Come in," turning to see who it was.

The knob turned, and her adoptive son entered the room.

Her heart thumped unpleasantly as she nodded in acknowledgment. It had been a hard crossing: Nellie had insisted that they have separate cabins, to give the boy space and time to work things out in his mind; and she'd seen him very rarely after that first time, when he'd looked her coldly in the eye and told her she wasn't doing him any favors. Now, once more, they had separate rooms, and while Toby hadn't gone out of his way to avoid her, he didn't particularly seek her out, either.

He closed the door behind him and sauntered to the dressing table – averting his eyes from Nellie the whole time – and nonchalantly tossed a folded newspaper onto it, saying "Thought you might want to see this," moving away again to lean against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

Without answering him, Nellie crossed the room and took up the paper. It was the Boston _Herald_, and the headline read MURDEROUS BAKER MURDERED IN TURN – THE PRISONER'S OWN GUARDS DID THE DEED, above a passable drawing of the Newgate gallows suspending three hooded male figures. Skimming the article that followed, Nellie learned that the London public had enthusiastically greeted – even demanded – her "murderers'" execution, as the men had (supposedly) deprived the citizenry of the satisfaction of witnessing the baker's highly-anticipated demise. The article went on to relate – with forced delicacy – the brief history of the case, ending with only the cryptic remark that the diabolical barber who had masterminded the entire affair (Nellie stifled a smile at that) had disappeared to parts unknown. There was no mention of Toby at all.

"Never thought it would make the news over here, 'specially with the war on," Nellie remarked, laying the paper down again.

"Nothin' for you to worry about, though," Toby remarked, in the sullen tone he'd developed in the time they'd been apart. "Why aren't they lookin' for him, anyway?"

She knew that he was referring to Todd, and replied, "They don't want him gettin' scared, knowin' he's bein' chased. They think it's more likely he'll get bold, make a mistake, if he doesn't think law enforcement's breathin' down his neck."

Toby nodded slowly. It pained Nellie to see how much he'd matured since the night he'd seen the bake house – the wrong kind of maturity, the kind that came from witnessing things that would break most grown men. But the greatest hurt was the boy's arctic silence, his adamant refusal to tell her what was in his mind, the harsh avoidance that, Nellie feared, bordered on hatred.

"They want you to look for him, don't they?" he asked.

"I don't think that's my chief purpose. This is a big country, after all; the bastard could be anywhere. But…I suppose, if I were to run across him, I'd be required to turn him in."

Toby smirked, still not meeting her eyes. "You'd never turn him in," he said quietly.

Nellie pushed away the little twinge at the back of her mind that suggested the lad might be right. "You don't know what he did to me, son."

"I'm not your son."

She turned back to the window. Her heart couldn't have been in more agony if the boy had plunged a knife into it and twisted the blade.

"Toby," she began, unable to keep her voice from quivering. "That night…did you see Mr. Todd come lookin' for you?"

"Huh?"

She swallowed. She had to know, although the knowing might kill her. "Me and Mr. Todd…we went lookin' for you…went right down to the sewers, a good long way…Did you see us?"

A horrible pause tormented Nellie before he answered: "No."

"Didn't hear us callin' you?"

"No. When I got down there I just ran till I couldn't run no more. Then I come back to my senses and turned 'round and went back. Didn't wanna leave you alone with him."

His voice had softened – just the slightest bit – when he said those last words.

"By the time I got back," he continued, "the both of you was gone. So I went back again, like a bloody coward, and when I crawled out I grabbed the first bobby I laid eyes on."

By now Nellie was positively shaking with relief. He didn't know Todd had been ready to silence him in the most unthinkable way. He hadn't seen her, hadn't heard her voice calling him, coaxing him with an ugly mockery of a protective mother's voice…

"You need to know I'd never have let him hurt you, darling," she said, her voice coming in a strained whisper, desperately striving to convince herself that this was true. _I love you so much, but I was scared, so scared I'd be hanged, that Mr. Todd would be hanged; you'll never know that kind of fear…But I wouldn't have allowed it…in the end, I wouldn't…_

"I tried," Toby said softly. "I tried to tell 'em he forced you. But that ain't true, is it?"

She said nothing.

"I tried to save you. Tried to get you to save yourself. Tell me there was a good reason to do that."

She battled the tears, but they insisted on welling to her eyes; and she forced her voice past the painful knot in her throat: "I can't…I wish I could make you understand, Toby…it was so hard, times were so _hard_, for so long – "

"I've been hungry too," he cut her off harshly. "It's no excuse for what you done. You did it 'cause you was in love with him, that's all. You still are, and you always will be, no matter what he's done to you."

She was about to protest this, tell the boy exactly what had transpired between her and the barber that night – but a knock on the door prevented her. Taking a moment to collect herself, she called "Enter."

The door opened to reveal the immaculate porter, who stood at attention and announced, "Your carriage is here, ma'am. The driver will wait at the front entrance."

"Thank you," she said with a nod, and the young man left immediately.

Well, this was a mercy. It at least broke the mounting strain between Nellie and the boy she still thought of as her son – for the time being, anyway.

"We're not done talkin' about this," she said as she moved to the door. Toby fell in behind her, but didn't reply.

****************

It was a tense, silent ride. By the time the hansom stopped before the austere brownstone manor that was their destination, Nellie was devoutly thankful to step out into the open air.

"We're here to see Mr. Danforth," she told the prim, spit-and-polished butler who opened the door almost immediately after she'd pulled the bell. The man raised an eyebrow and asked, in a dry, plum English tone, "And who may I say is calling?"

_Damn._ She was more nervous than she'd realized. "Templeton," she answered without hesitation, giving the pseudonym Edington had assigned her. "Eleanor Templeton."

"Ah yes. Mr. Danforth is expecting you, Miss Templeton; do come in."

He stepped aside and Nellie moved past him into the entrance hall – a great open space paneled in fine, rich, dark wood, with double pocket doors opening onto a large, well-appointed parlor on the left. Her eyes were drawn to the staircase, wide, shallow, red-carpeted steps curving along the line of a graceful, sweeping banister, its intricately-carved balusters pulling her gaze ever upwards towards a coffered ceiling, each square laced with gold leaf forming twisted vine-like patterns against a background of cobalt blue.

"Coo," Toby breathed behind her.

She turned, saw him gaping like a fish, and muttered "Close your mouth, dear."

He did, and swallowed hard, still obviously struggling to contain his astonishment. Nellie could hardly blame the lad – she herself had never been in such a fine house in all her life and had a hard enough time preventing herself from gaping at its marvels; and she doubted that her son, simple thing that he was, had ever so much as dreamed of such a place.

"This way, Miss," said the butler, mounting the stairs, his hands never touching the banister but remaining stiffly at his sides. Nellie followed him to the first landing and down a wide hallway, the walls covered in a deep red damask fabric above a mahogany wainscot, passing a series of closed doors until their guide stopped before one. So absorbed was Nellie in her admiration of the house that she nearly crashed into him, but pulled up short just in time to avoid such a catastrophe.

The man lifted his hand and knocked, and a muffled English voice beyond the door called out "Yes?"

The butler pushed the door ajar and stepped to the threshold, obscuring Nellie's view into the room. "Miss Templeton and her young charge, sir."

"Ah!" the voice replied. "Yes, show them in and then close the door, will you Arthur? There's a good fellow."

Arthur moved aside, his chest thrown out proudly, allowing Nellie and Toby to enter; and she heard him, as ordered, softly click the door shut behind them.

"Mrs. Lovett," said her host. "It's ah…a very _interesting_ honor, I'm sure."

They were clearly in the man's office, Nellie thought – the walls lined with bookshelves (or rather, completely composed of them) stuffed to bursting with thick, serious-looking tomes; a few comfortable chairs arranged neatly facing each other in a kind of small circle to facilitate conversation; and a large desk occupying almost the entire back wall, which was actually an enormous window, allowing light to flood the room.

"Please," Danforth went on, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. "Make yourselves comfortable."

Nellie could practically feel Toby trembling beside her as they moved forward, their feet making no sound on the deep, exotic-patterned carpeting.

"May I offer you a glass of port?"

Nellie nodded. "All right."

Danforth went to a small credenza against one wall, where rested a tray supporting a decanter and glasses. "I'm sure you want to get right down to business," he began, as he poured out the liquor, such a deep red it was almost purple. "We're sending you to South Carolina. There's a gentleman there by the name of Nathan Beaumont – immensely wealthy, old family, extremely well-connected. A nominal captain in the Confederate army, a sort of honorary title due to his heritage. American southerners are wild for that sort of thing, some notion of ancestral honor or chivalry or some such nonsense. Never steps foot on the field, the politicians have better uses for him. He certainly has the ear of my employer's counterpart, the British ambassador to the CSA; and we believe he may even be a personal acquaintance of Jefferson Davis himself."

Nellie's eyes narrowed. "Jefferson…"

"Oh, forgive me," Danforth chuckled. "So-called president of the so-called Confederate States of America. Ruler of a nonexistent nation, as far as the Federal government is concerned." He shook his head as he turned and approached her, handing over one of the now-filled glasses. Nellie couldn't help but notice Toby's wistful glance in her drink's direction, and she nearly smiled.

"I can't figure these Americans," Danforth remarked as he took a seat. He was so casual, so friendly, Nellie felt she'd known him her entire life. He'd created such a relaxed atmosphere, they may as well have been at a tea party, old childhood friends meeting for a little catch-up chat for the first time after years apart.

She didn't trust him.

"They start a war to be on their own, like spoilt children," he went on; "and then when they get their precious independence they turn on each other and start tearing their own throats out. Do you mind if I smoke?"

Nellie shook her head. "Your house, Mr. Danforth."

"Thank you."

He removed a pipe from the breast pocket of his jacket and went about the elaborate ritual of lighting it; and it was only then that Nellie took the chance to get a good look at the man: small, well-dressed, a bit pale and lank from the work that kept him indoors most of the time; his dark hair slicked back, his mustache neatly waxed; bright, light-brown eyes that darted back and forth on occasion, as though they expected to spot someone lurking behind the furniture.

A nervous little man, Nellie thought.

Puffing his pipe into life, Danforth cleared his throat and said, "Well, as you know, Mrs. Lovett, my employer – the ambassador – needs to know just how much influence a man such as Beaumont possesses. He's well-placed, financially and politically, to affect an alliance." Here he grew serious, and leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice as though afraid of being overheard. "Beaumont covets that alliance. This much we already know: He wants the Crown to devote the Royal Navy to the Confederate cause – break the Federal blockade first, then eventually bombard the major cities on the east coast. Put simply, he wants us to outright invade Boston and New York by sea and establish bases of operation there; and when that's done, he wants to force Lincoln to capitulate by squeezing Washington in two directions – English ships from the east and the Confederate army from the west. Beaumont's already paid for two ships of war from English builders, and he's prepared to personally finance many, many more."

"I can see why his government likes him," Nellie observed.

"He'd pay for this entire war out of his own pocket if he could," Danforth said. "He's passionate – rabid for what Southerners call the Cause."

Nellie sighed. "Well, with due respect, Mr. Danforth, if you already know all this I don't see why you need me."

Danforth regarded her intently, his eyes boring into her own. "The Crown must not make a mistake in choosing its friends. We need someone on the inside of this man's daily life, to watch him at all times. You're to discover what circles Beaumont moves in, whose ear he's bending. Who they're talking to on our side. That sort of thing."

"And am I to attempt to influence his activities, in one direction or another?" Nellie asked shrewdly.

Danforth smiled. "For the time being you are to _assess_ his activities, nothing more."

"For the time being," she repeated.

"We'll get further instructions to you in future. Don't worry, you won't run out of work to do."

"And how exactly am I to earn this man's confidence? Sidle up to him at a dinner party and introduce myself as the Ambassador from the British Empire?"

"I don't think my employer would appreciate being impersonated in such a manner," Danforth replied with a good-natured grin, rising and moving behind his desk, opening a drawer and riffling through its contents. "No – you will pose as the niece of a British shipbuilder, a rival to the company Beaumont has worked with in the past, ready to provide better vessels at less cost. There's no end to what he might divulge in his efforts to garner such support."

When he returned to Nellie, he offered her a thick envelope held closed with twine; and as she took it he said, "Everything you need to know about your 'uncle' and his business is here. It's a real company run by a real man – it's better that way, in case Beaumont goes snooping about. Which he will, as a man of intelligence. The shipbuilder knows all about our little scheme, in case Beaumont tries contacting him directly. Though he doesn't know your real identity, of course."

Nellie's heart had leapt into her throat at the sight of this mammoth dossier, filled with facts and figures she couldn't possibly ever learn well enough; and she swallowed as delicately as she could while perusing its contents with shaky fingers. Danforth must have noticed her agitation, because he seated himself again and said, "Don't worry. Edington tells me you've an astute mind; you'll do all right. Of course it'll take some time, but the ambassador is paying for your lodgings for another week. We'll arrange a letter to Beaumont from your uncle, expressing interest in doing business with him and asking that you be received as his guest for the duration of your stay in America."

Nellie looked up at that. "His guest?..."

"Absolutely. This will give you unrestricted access to Beaumont's houses, and their…contents."

She blinked in surprise. "Houses? What, the blighter's got more than one?"

Danforth's eyebrows shot up. "Certainly. He owns a town house in Charleston and a very vast plantation in Georgia. Odds are he'll be going back and forth between the two. And as he's unlikely to carry you about like a pet dog, he'll surely leave you on your own in one or the other of them at some point."

Nellie breathed deeply, attempting to fully grasp the implications of her situation. She had no idea what she was doing. She could be discovered. She could be killed. One slip, one moment of forgetfulness, a single instant of unawareness, and she'd be done for…She had no idea who this Beaumont was, what manner of man he was. He might be a right proper bastard. _Well,_ she thought, _it ain't like I haven't lived with one o' them already…_

The memory of Todd struck her like a dart, and she focused viciously on one of the papers in her hand, something full of numbers…

"Uh…pardon me…sir…"

She started at the sound of Toby's small, timid voice – she'd nearly forgotten he was there. "Oh," she noised, momentarily flustered – "Yes…Mr. Danforth, I suppose this Nathan Beaumont is expecting my son as well – "

"Ah! Yes, thank you for reminding me of that. Edington told me how adamant you were about the boy, Mrs. Lovett; and I'm glad to say that we've found the perfect place for him."

Nellie's immediate relief turned to doubt in a heartbeat – Danforth's words sounded as though _the_ _perfect place_ would not be with her… "And where would that be, Mr. Danforth?" she asked, her voice quiet from apprehension.

"In an artillery company from Rhode Island."

Her heart stopped.

"An…artillery…"

"Yes. Edington agrees with you that the boy can be useful; we're placing him to…"

But his voice was fading, as though Nellie's ears were suddenly stuffed with cotton; and a yellow film was stealing over her vision.

_Artillery…_

…Danforth's voice going on, as through a closed window…something about troop movements…"good to have a man on the ground…"

But he wasn't a man. He was a child. A little boy. _Her_ little boy…

"Sign me up."

Her son's voice shattered the stupor Nellie had fallen into. Her head whipped in his direction – he was leaning forward, literally on the edge of his seat, gripping the arms of his chair, his eyes bright and eager. Danforth was smiling crookedly.

"Sign me up," Toby repeated. "Get me outta here."

Suddenly finding her voice, coming to herself again, her characteristic fire returning, Nellie said "No. Absolutely not. I forbid it."

"I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter, Mrs. Lovett," said Danforth, still smiling.

Fighting the panic rising within her, striving to keep her breathing even and her voice steady, she insisted: "You can't allow boys in a _war_ without their guardians agreein' – "

"You were never his guardian legally," Danforth commented gently.

"Now hang on just a minute – "

"I want to go," said Toby loudly, his eyes fixed on Danforth – Nellie turned to him again and shouted _"I forbid it!"_ – Toby's eyes snapped to hers and he cried _"You're not my bleedin' mother!"_

She wasn't surprised by these words, but they hurt nonetheless – all the more because they were true, and no amount of wishing or pretending could make it otherwise.

"Indeed, Mrs. Lovett," said Danforth quietly – "you're not the boy's mother. You are an agent of the British Empire now. That is the sole reason for your existence – quite literally, I might add."

"He's too young," she protested, not ready to give up. "Anyone can see that…he ain't even thirteen years old!"

"Mrs. Lovett, surely you're aware that youth is no barrier to certain field positions – color bearers, runners, drummers, powder boys and the like. An artillery corps is really the safest place we could find for him – "

Toby stood, cutting him off, and said "Just tell me where to go, sir. I want to do this. I'll go right away, this afternoon if you like."

A sudden realization struck Nellie then, like a fist of iron crashing into her gut: The boy was deliberately trying to break her heart. He was purposely, knowingly, intentionally causing her pain.

_Just like Todd._

She'd lost him. Whatever might happen – whether he lived through the horrors of combat or not – to her, he was already gone.

She looked away from him, back to the fat packet of facts and figures in her hands. It wasn't like her to give up a fight, when there was something, anything, to fight for – but she knew that, in this case, the battle was already lost.

"The arrangements have all been made," Danforth was saying. "You'll take an early afternoon train; my man will drive you to the station."

Toby spun on his heel and marched from the room, and Nellie tried to ignore the needling sense – she dare not call it a premonition – that she would never lay eyes on him again; and the infinitely worse knowledge that the boy would prefer it that way.

* * *

**A/N: Please review**. I hate this chapter, actually; I think it's too talky, but I had no idea how else to get this information across. Oh - and don't put too much stock in Nellie's "premonitions". She is a bit depressed, after all ;) Thanks for reading!


	6. A Hole in the World

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

**A/N:** Phantomfr33k24601 has made a beautiful banner for this story. I'm so impressed that she captured the essence of this fic and it's not even halfway done yet...The link is on my profile so go check it out! And then go read her stuff. Immediately. You'll be glad you did.

PLUG OF THE WEEK: To LovestruckCenturies for "Tea", a great story that has a disgustingly small number of reviews. I highly recommend that you jog on over there and give it a look-see :)

As always...THANK YOU to those who are following this story, especially those who review and subscribe. And if you only read and don't review because you don't have an account, I love you too :D

* * *

**6**

**A Hole in the World.**

_He prowled along his landing, the sinews of his neck and arms and legs taut and tense as a ship's cable, his fevered eyes scanning, searching the mass of humanity below, seeking a sign of him…It was Lovett who'd suggested he may come at night, rather than during the barber's regular business hours. _"After a hard day's work condemnin' innocent men,"_ she'd told him, when he'd fallen into one of his fits of morose impatience and wondered aloud where the hell the bloody bastard was keeping himself. _"Once word gets 'round he might stop in for a nice hot supper, and I'll send him right up to you love, no mistake."_ She'd laid a hand on his arm as she said this, and he'd been surprised to find the gesture reassuring – almost calming._

_She had that effect on him, somehow. He couldn't explain why, not even to himself. But he was increasingly finding, during those nights when he would descend to her parlor for a drink when his work was done, that the sound of her voice muffled the screaming in his head, the accusing voices of the family he'd abandoned; the sight of her somehow, miraculously, dimmed the visions of blistering horror under the scorching prison sun, the endless film of red that coated everything he saw._

_She rested his mind._

_Increasingly, he couldn't tell who he sought more, looking down into that herd of swine crowding her tables._

_Part of him didn't want peace. Peace would mean forgetfulness, and forgetfulness would mean the betrayal of everything he'd ever held dear. His wife must be avenged. Simple. This was his sacred duty. Should he fail, her spirit would never_ _find rest. He was certain of this because she appeared to him in dreams that robbed him of even the meager, fitful sleep he occasionally managed to steal, asking him for justice, telling him that her soul was in torment until the man responsible for her ruin was himself destroyed. Todd could no sooner forget this than he could cut off his own hand._

_In these dreams, he begged Lucy to haunt him forever, even after his task was fulfilled._

_But oh, how another part of him, weary and tired, longed for such peace as would drive the endless fever from his mind, the eternal burden of being the avenger of blood. This part of him wanted nothing more than to stop, to rest, to let everything go. This was the part of Sweeney Todd that sought the soothing presence in the downstairs parlor. _

_He'd learned to respect strength in the colony. Strength and an inexorable will and a mind like flint were what kept a man alive, and Todd had discovered since his return that Nellie Lovett possessed all these qualities in abundance. She'd gotten by on her own through all those long years; and now, before his eyes, she'd transformed the place into an unrecognizable marvel, like some bloody alchemist spinning dung into gold. She dressed out his kills night after night, sloughed the flesh from men's bones without so much as a flinch. Fifteen years ago he'd never have suspected it of her – his chatty, cheery, lively landlady, her pleasant exterior concealing a core as hard as brass nails. He wondered if she'd had it in her even back then, and he simply hadn't noticed; or if the toll of the intervening years had created that hardness in her – if her very nature had been subverted, blasted, altered, like his. _

_Todd acknowledged and respected the strength he saw in her, and the shrewdness and cunning and fearlessness. Since his first night back, when she'd expressed her understanding and support of his plans and her shared hatred of Turpin – and most especially since the day she'd made good on that sentiment by astonishing him with her strategy for eradicating the evidence of his activities – he'd come to think of her as his equal, and he'd decided to take the chance of trusting her implicitly, crafting a mechanism of survival in the only way his circumstances made possible._

_She seemed to be going out of her way to prove that he could trust her. She assisted him like no one else he'd ever encountered. She'd helped him get back on his feet by challenging Pirelli, helping him get his business in order. She'd even offered to take care of the books for him, though he'd refused. She'd saved him from making a terrible mistake when he'd nearly attacked the judge's right-hand man in the crowded market._

_She looked after him constantly, and she didn't have to._

_In an impulsive burst of enthusiasm such as he hadn't experienced since the night of his escape from the colony, he'd told her he didn't know how he'd lived without her all those years; and he'd meant it. She could help him get along in this new world, just as O'Bannon had taken him under his wing and helped him get along in his imprisonment. _

Where is he?...Where is Turpin?...

_Lovett had told him yes, keep an eye out for the bloody judge; but look at the crowd, too. _"Look at 'em close, love…pay attention to who's alone, who'll be missed…see if anyone's keepin' an eye on you, might notice a man go in and not come back." _So he did this too, as he paced his landing, assessing men whose grizzled faces indicated they might seek a shave, discerning possible marks._

_All the while hoping so hard it was close to a prayer that Turpin or Bamford would have heard of this grand re-opening and come to sample the cuisine, which had steadily been gaining a very favorable reputation over the past few weeks thanks to Lovett's tireless work. _

_She appeared suddenly then, emerging from the shop's interior below, her small form framed by the railing. She was wearing a dusky dress tonight, such a deep hue as to be almost black, her white shoulders and flaming hair contrasting exquisitely in the glow of the hanging lanterns. Todd didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look so happy when she'd come up to his shop earlier that evening, before she'd opened the doors. _"Well, this is it, Mr. T," _she'd said, and stood before his bureau mirror plucking at her hair with her fingernails. She asked him if she looked all right, to which he'd answered a noncommittal "Mm"_ _and turned back to the window, focusing once more on running a clean white cloth over the blade of the razor in his hand, letting the anticipation of the evening ahead build in him. She'd been smiling the whole time she was there, but he'd known she was anxious by the unusually high pitch in her voice as she prattled on non-stop about things he only occasionally caught, like "gravy" and "crust's light enough" and "been so long, I think I've forgotten…" _

_He stopped pacing, leaning on the rail to observe her breeze among the crowd, in her element, laughing and chatting with the patrons as though she'd been born for this – and only he knew what lay beyond that smile, what danced behind her darkly flashing eyes; no one at the tables knew – the boy didn't know –_

_Only he, and she, in all the world._

_A man was threading between the tables, heading straight for the stairs – shit, he hadn't been paying attention…Was he with someone?...Would he be missed?..._

_He would be taking an enormous risk, with all these people here..._

_Todd was reluctant to take the man, fearing that he might miss the judge or the beadle…but he remembered Lovett's promise that she'd send them up if they came; and he trusted her. _

_He ushered the fellow into the shop, just as Lovett looked up and caught his eye – fully expecting to see him, he knew – and she smiled and winked, not caring who saw her; and despite himself the corner of his mouth quirked up – a sign of the silent understanding passing between them over the heads of the oblivious diners, an acknowledgment of the shared secret life that bound them together._

_Todd entered his parlor and shut the door, finding his customer already seated, his head tilted back, a small, relaxed smile on his face. He'd been a barber long enough to know what that look signified._

"_Long day, sir?" he asked, fastening a crisp white sheet around his client's neck._

_"Unh," the man half-sighed, half-groaned. "You would not believe, sir."_

"_And what is it you do for a living, sir, that causes you such fatigue?" said the barber, his back to the chair as he began stirring the lather in its little pot._

"_I'm a clerk in a bank." Then he snorted and added, "A lower one."_

"_I see," Todd said sympathetically, coming around the chair, beginning to brush the lather onto the man's stubbled cheeks. A nagging sense of familiarity squirmed at the back of Todd's mind as he examined the visage before him. He couldn't recall shaving the man in the past…perhaps he'd been to Lovett's shop before this night?...had he seen him in passing, at St. Dunstan's perhaps?...did he look like someone from the colony?..._

"_Well, sir," Todd said, putting the lather away and carefully selecting a razor from its case. "It's my job to help you relax after such a grueling day. Perhaps a nice scalp massage will do the trick."_

"_Oh, yes, that sounds delightful."_

"_I'll include it at no charge, sir."_

"_How gracious of you, Mr. Todd!"_

_The feeling that he knew this man would not leave Todd alone, and as he scraped the impeccable blade across his customer's skin he said softly, "Do we know each other, sir?"_

"_What's that?"_

"_Your face is terribly familiar."_

"_Oh! I don't know…I might have one of those faces. Some men do, you know?"_

"_Yes," Todd said. "I'm sure…Ah, sir – I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"_

"_Oh, it's Dalton, Charles Dalton."_

_The razor stopped moving._

Dalton.

_Todd's hand was still as a stone, hovering just below the man's larynx. As though struggling through a black fog, the memory came back to him – the courtroom, the witness in the dock…The colors were faded, the sounds muted; but it was there, swimming to the surface of his mind –_

"Yes, Your Honor, I saw the prisoner – Mr. Barker, there – leaving the scene of the crime, at about ten-thirty in the evening on the date in question."

"No!" Barker shouted – the stupid git – "I was never there, I've never been there before in my life!" and Lucy was screaming "No, Benjamin!" and there was another voice, a woman's, joining hers, just as hysterical, full of tears, crying "He were at home all night, he never left the house! This is outrageous!"

Turpin called for order with a crash of his gavel, and said, "Continue, Mr. Dalton."

Dalton…a man with patches on the elbows of his coat, his collar threadbare, his shoes squeaking as they crossed the courtroom floor…

A man who looked as though he badly needed money.

Charles Dalton.

"_You'll arrive home late, Mr. Dalton," Todd said, moving the blade along the clerk's neck, lifting the stubble, the blood pounding so heavily in his veins he could hear the rush of it in his ears. "I do hope your wife won't worry for you."_

"_Oh, I haven't got a wife."_

"_Is that so?"_

"_Yes; unfortunately I was never able to afford to support a family."_

_Todd left the man half-shaven and stepped to the bureau, picking up the picture frame containing the images of his wife and daughter, and returned, placing the object under Dalton's eyes. "I had a family once," he said._

"_Ah…yes, I see…"_

"_I was sent away from them," the barber went on. "Tell me, Mr. Dalton – what did you do with all that money?"_

_The man swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the door – but Todd was standing over him in such a way as to block any attempt at escape. "What are you talking about?..."_

"_Well, I should've hoped you'd have put it to good use after all. I'd hate to think it went to waste. I'd like to know it lasted a good long time, seeing what it purchased. A dead man, and a woman what took her own life, and an orphan."_

_Dalton's face was contorting with terror, lines of sweat streaking through what was left of the lather on his face; and Todd knew that his own features must be revealing his intent. "Good God, don't – "_

"_Years ago you testified at the trial of Benjamin Barker," Todd snarled. "Your lies helped send him to somethin' worse than death. But don't worry. You can make it right."_

"_Oh my God – it's yo – "_

_His voice dissolved into a wet gurgle as Todd drew the razor's edge across his jugular, the blade slicing cleanly through skin and muscle, ripping through the tougher sinews, tissues, the hollow pipes and tubes of his throat, releasing his life in a dark red flood that looked almost black in the dimness of the room. Todd let out a cry – of vindication, of exhilaration, his heart thundering so hard he was becoming lightheaded; the room was spinning around him, the coppery tang of blood filling his open mouth…_

_He staggered back when it was done, trembling from the rush of euphoria still gripping him, making him feel alive for once. "You remember him, darling," he whispered to Lucy's ghost, her dark shade watching him, he knew, blending with the shadows in the corner by the shattered mirror he hadn't bothered to replace. "Soon they'll all be made to pay. Every single one."_

_He took one last, triumphant look into Dalton's lightless eyes before sending the corpse to the bake house, to its own little hell; and when the trap door and the chair had folded back in order, he stripped off his soiled shirt, set it to soak in a basin of water he kept on hand for the purpose, and began mopping up the blood on and around the chair before it had a chance to dry. _

_When his task was done he put a clean shirt on and shaved two men legitimately, having exhausted his willingness to engage in any further flirting with detection. A little more than an hour later, the pie-shop crowd had finally dispersed. Toby was cleaning the tables in the courtyard when Todd – returned to the landing, his dedicated eyes having never found the judge – retreated to his parlor and_ _lost himself, lost all sense of time passing, trying to bury his frustration in cleaning his razors, checking their edges, making sure they were keen and bright, only briefly and occasionally taking his eyes off the double frame that held all that was left of his wife, and the only image he'd ever see of his daughter. Killing Dalton had only satisfied him for a time – he'd been a good catch, but not, after all, the ultimate goal – and soon enough the old anger and sense of frustrated purpose returned to him with a passion._

_When he finally, tenderly placed the last folded blade in its cradle and lowered the case's lid, he decided he wanted a drink._

_When he stepped out onto the landing again, Toby was nowhere to be seen, and Fleet Street was silent – it was later than he thought, Todd realized. Knowing that the shop door would be locked at such an hour, he returned and used the interior stairs, descending near the short connecting passage between the shop and Lovett's residence. A soft orange glimmer around the edges of the curtain surprised him – she hadn't yet retired._

_He wasn't sure if he was glad of this or not._

_He pushed aside the curtain, fully expecting to see her sitting up reading, her head instantly turning toward him as he stepped into the room – _

_But she was lying on the settee, still and quiet, her serene face turned to the firelight, eyes closed, her breathing deep and even. Todd retreated a step – he'd never seen her sleeping before; and he suddenly felt that his presence here was inappropriate. Rather like entering a lady's bedroom uninvited. But he couldn't take his eyes from her…there was something captivating in the sight, seeing her at rest like this, at peace, sleeping as he never could, free of troublesome dreams. His eyes had been deprived of pleasant things for so long…in prison he'd constructed the visage of his wife and baby behind his closed lids, every time he blinked, every time he squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding white-hot sun. But while those images kept him alive, refreshed him briefly from the stark, unforgiving, colorless landscape of sand and stone and scrub in which he subsisted, they were only shadows, and he knew it. Real, solid, substantial beauty of any kind had been denied him too long._

_But it was only now, standing in this little firelit parlor, that he was fully aware of how much he'd missed it. It wasn't the kind of beauty he coveted – not the radiance of his Lucy, not her seraphic face, that intriguing little half-smile she sometimes wore in her sleep – but it was something pleasant to look at, and the unfamiliarity of such a sight filled the barber with a desire so unaccustomed it felt positively foreign, and with a strange sense of dread that he didn't understand. _

"She's a real lady," _the boy had said to him; and he'd answered _"That she is." _And he'd meant it. _

_He remembered his drink, and moved to the liquor cabinet to procure it, selecting a tumbler and a bottle of the good whiskey Lovett had begun stocking. He'd just poured the liquor – careful not to clink the glass and bottle and wake his landlady – and was raising it to his lips when he heard a rustle behind him, and her voice, thick with sleep._

"_Mr. Todd."_

_He froze._

"_Mrs. Lovett," he answered after a moment, recovering and taking a drink._

"_I think the night went well," she said quietly after a moment; and he smirked and said, "So do I." And he told her about Dalton._

"_I know," she said._

_He blinked, and turned to face her. She was sitting up now, one arm thrown across the settee back, looking up at him with a small, impish smile on her lips._

"_You…know?"_

"'_Course, dear. I recognized him as soon as I went down there and saw him lyin' under the trap. I was so happy for you."_

_Sweeney Todd didn't think much of anything could astonish him anymore; but this certainly did. "What – were he a customer o' yours? Been in here before?"_

_She shook her head slowly. "Only saw him the once, at your trial. Never since."_

_Todd was angered by this. Surely she was making things up – for what reason, he couldn't guess. "You can't possibly mean you remembered him from fifteen years ago, Mrs. Lovett."_

_She regarded him with narrowed eyes, and said "I remember every one of 'em, love. I remember every one o' their faces, and every one o' their lies."_

_She stood then, and approached him, began toying with his waistcoat buttons, as she'd gotten into the habit of doing from time to time. "That were quite the risk you took, dear. Anybody could've noticed he didn't come back out…"_

"_Yes…" He could barely get the word out, his throat was suddenly constricted; and he realized his fists were clenched, his short nails digging into the lines of his palms. She was so close that he was breathing her scent – the smoke of the oven, and whatever herbs she seasoned the meat with, and blood just faint beneath it all. "The risk…" His heart started thrumming again at the thought of just how big the risk had been; but the thrill of the memory mingled with the disappointment of his greatest ambition. "But he weren't the judge, pet…another day gone, and none of 'em were the judge…"_

_Her hand began stroking his chest through his shirt. "There, dear," she said, her voice like salve on a wound, like a breeze on a stifling day. "He'll come. The wait'll only make it sweeter when it happens. Then we'll get him, you and me."_

You and me…

_And suddenly, Todd knew whose voice it had been alongside Lucy's in the courtroom that day, fighting for him, desperate._

_"Why d'you want him dead?" he asked, already knowing the answer._

_She lifted her face, and looked so deeply into his eyes that he felt she was reaching down inside him; and a part of him cringed at the touch, but another part wanted to yield, to let her minister to him like a physician, let her clear the red haze from his vision. _

"_Took somethin' precious away from me," she said, her voice barely a whisper, nearly lost in the sound of the crackling fire._

"_What did he take from you?" Todd breathed._

_She hesitated so long before answering that he thought she wasn't going to speak…until at length, these words fell softly from her lips:_

"_He took Mr. Barker away."_

_Her eyes promised him the refuge he longed for, offered him the peace he found so elusive. Asked him to give her all of his sorrow and confusion and fury._

_His very own trusty._

_But something hardened in him, and his teeth clenched and ground together. "Barker weren't yours," he hissed._

"_I know," she said, her voice calm and even. "Didn't stop me from…havin' a soft spot for you. Bein' fond of you. Powerful fond, I always was, Mr. T."_

_Todd was breathing hard through his nose now, anger rising up in him, churning in his chest. "I'm not that man anymore."_

"_No," she agreed, one of her hands moving to lazily finger the collar of his shirt, the backs of her fingers brushing the skin stretched over his collarbone. "But you don't have to be, love. I don't want you to be."_

_His fingers gripped the tumbler in his hand, so hard he thought it might break; and he almost wanted it to, wanted to feel the shards slice through his flesh, feel the hot blood seep along his skin, the liquor burn in the cuts, make stinging tears prickle the backs of his eyes._

_Just to feel alive._

_He couldn't allow what was threatening to happen. He would not be taken and exposed again. Not ever again._

"_It's getting late, Mrs. Lovett," he said. "I'm tired."_

_So very tired… _

"_You gonna leave, then?" she murmured._

_Todd didn't remember, later, how it had happened, or even the why of it. He only knew that one moment he was saying "Yes, I'm going back upstairs" in a distant tone; and the next moment the glass was slipping from his fingers and he was crushing her in arms like steel, biting fiercely at her lips, clawing at her hair, her clothes…and damned if she wasn't matching him, clutching at him madly, pressing herself to him as though trying to get inside his very skin, her own advances just as ferocious as his. He supposed the loneliness of her long widowhood was fueling her ardor. She was willing, at any rate – most enthusiastically willing – and that was all he needed to know._

_He felt her hungry lips on his neck – but he'd forgotten how to kiss a woman, how to touch her; he could only gnaw at her flesh with his teeth and seize her hair at the scalp and grab handfuls of her garments…All he knew in that moment was the drive to possess her, because she was like him; because by God he would claim something beautiful as his own, for once, for the first time in an interminable lifetime of drought and deprivation, because god_damn_ it he was entitled…because he was overthrown by the need to release the fury building up inside him, to do something forbidden and get away with it, fueling the thrill of the risk, an extension of the secret he indulged with this woman every moment of every day. All he knew in that moment was a relentless craving to _have something_, and the only way he could do that was like this: brutally, grasping, demanding. _

_Everything else – every reason against this – was forgotten. _

_Somehow they tumbled to the floor, entangled in each other, thrashing and rolling in front of the hearth, tearing fabric, gasping, panting, growling into each other's skin, tugging on hair, gripping flesh down to the bone. Undiluted lust threatened to burn through his veins like liquid fire, like a drug, muddling his mind like opium…_

"_She's gone," he heard himself cry out, without knowing where the words had come from._

"_Yes," she answered._

"_Both of them, gone – gone – "_

"_I'm here now…you've got me, my darling, I've always been yours, always…"_

"_I can't get to him – the goddamn…he'll never come again – never – "_

"_Shh, love, my love – hold on to me…"_

_Over and over he groaned one word, _gone – gone – gone_, his teeth gnashing over the sound; and he did hold on to her, as though she were the jerry-rigged flotsam raft he'd clung to when the storm had swept him into the sea during his escape…But he didn't look at her, not once: he kept his eyes closed or averted from hers: he didn't want to see her face when those sounds were coming from so deep in her throat, when the words she was crying out had become unintelligible – he didn't want her to see his abandonment of control, the rapture shooting through him almost against his will, sensations so alien to him that their awakening was almost an agonizing physical torment. Part of him fought this, didn't want to feel it, tried to push it away; and another part coveted it, seized this chance to pour out all of his dark energy, to give it over to her as she'd asked –_

_Reaching for an instant, however fleeting, when he could pretend that his heart could still beat. _

_His vision went blank as something in him snapped, exploded, and he heard his own voice roaring – with ecstasy or pain or rage, he didn't know. Suddenly a horrible weakness overtook him, and he shuddered and crumpled, falling onto his trembling lover, hearing her voice but not comprehending the words she was speaking. With an effort, he turned from her, his back hitting the hearth rug, his limbs shaking, the gray ceiling swirling before his blurred eyes. He felt drunk and feverish. Lovett's lips were on every inch of him, her hands still running greedily over his skin, as though their encounter hadn't been enough, would never be enough, whispering things he didn't want to hear…He wanted to get up off the floor and leave the room, but he was so damned weak, and his vision was dimming…_

_His rest was undisturbed until she woke him gently just before dawn. He found that she'd placed a blanket over them both at some point in the night, and he knew somehow that, apart from that action, she hadn't left his side._

*****************

"Coffee?"

Sweeney Todd started and swung about in one motion, his bayonet-fixed rifle arcing through the darkness beside him – and found himself staring into a pair of frightened green eyes below the jauntily askew brim of a Confederate gray kepi.

Some picket he was.

"Damn it, Johnson," the barber snarled, lowering his weapon, deeply angered with himself for being caught so completely unaware. "I almost filleted you."

The boy gulped and chuckled nervously. "I just thought you could use a cup of somethin' strong to keep your eyes open," he drawled shakily, extending a battered tin cup.

Todd's eyes flicked to the brew suspiciously. He hated the black, bitter, usually cold stuff. As far as he could discern it had only two purposes: scaring the worms out of hardtack, and –

He sighed through his nose. It was, he admitted, also quite effective at keeping him alert for picket duty.

"Where'd you dig that up at this hour?"

Johnson shrugged. "Fire was goin' anyway, and I couldn't sleep so I figured I'd fix me some. Then I thought of you bein' out here."

Ah yes – Johnson _would_ think of him. A scrap of a bloke, his tanned, perpetually dirt-smudged cheeks devoid of even a solitary downy whisker, his reedy voice apparently just fresh from breaking, the lad had for some unfathomable reason latched on to Todd and his two comrades, MacMullen and Rayburn, almost the instant they'd joined up with the regiment in Virginia. Even more inexplicably, he seemed to regard Todd with something akin to hero worship. The barber had been shocked that such youths were allowed into the ranks; but MacMullen had told him that the Confederacy was growing increasingly desperate for fighters, accepting any male who could walk and carry a firearm. This was especially true of units like the First Texas, which constantly endured ghastly casualties due to their being usually placed on the front lines. But Johnson's presence still surprised him – a hardened battle veteran already, and no more than a couple of years older than Toby Ragg –

Todd shifted his rifle to his right hand, took the cup with his left, and poured the lukewarm liquid down his throat, not bothering to suppress the wince that spasmed across his face. Toby Ragg – why the bloody hell was he thinking about _him_? But strange things had been marching across the canvas of darkness filling his eyes all night long – memories he didn't want, intrusive pictures more insidious than any human enemy. He could stand guard against Yankee patrols, and maybe raise the alarm and fend them off; but against his own mind he was completely defenseless. It was difficult not to let his thoughts wander, not to be distracted by his own imagination, encamped in the wilds of Virginia, the only sound the chirping of crickets, and only the thick black velvet night to look at.

A small, thin _tap tap tap_ made Todd turn his attention back to the boy at his side, and he saw that the youth was shuffling from foot to foot, shifting his weight, glancing anxiously into the night, and slapping a roll of paper against one leg. "Quiet, ain't it?" he said after some long moments of silence.

"Mm," Todd noised, taking another sip of his coffee. _Too bloody quiet…her voice is too insistent here…_

"So uh," Johnson continued, as though Todd's noncommittal response had encouraged him. "You and your friends were sent to fill in the ranks?"

Under ordinary circumstances, of course, Todd wouldn't have given two coppers to engage this boy (or anyone else) in conversation; but knowing Johnson, he wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon, regardless of how much he was ignored or rebuffed. So Todd answered, "I wanted to enlist and a friend was in a position to get me into this regiment. MacMullen and Rayburn signed on when they found out where I was goin'."

Johnson nodded. "Seen action yet?"

Todd shook his head curtly.

"You mean to say you never picked up a rifle before you come to us right after we chased the Yanks outta Harrison's Landing a couple weeks back?"

"That's right."

Johnson sighed. "I seen men turn tail and run first time they see action. Not that _you_ will," he added hastily. "Don't seem the type."

Todd still couldn't believe that a boy so young was speaking this way. "And how much action have you seen?" he asked.

"Oh, I been here since we all mustered in last year," Johnson replied casually. "Joined up to be with my brother, mostly. He was the only family I had."

Todd shifted his eyes to the lad. "Was?"

Johnson nodded, and looked away. "He got killed at Cold Harbor, back in June."

Todd said nothing, and the two stood in silence for some time, the only sound the occasional _tap tap_ of Johnson's roll of paper hitting his leg.

Eventually it was the boy's timid voice that intruded on the quiet. "So uh, where you from, anyhow? You sound English or somethin'."

"Yes," Todd replied, forcing himself to drain the last dregs of the miserable coffee. He wasn't about to get more specific. He hadn't changed his name, enlisting as S. Todd – he wasn't exactly trying to hide – but he wasn't going to jump to give himself away, either.

"You got a girl back home?"

Instantly, visions of Lucy filled his mind – bright and clear-eyed and happy, radiant on their wedding day, glowing with joy when she held Johanna in her arms for the first time – dissolving into the picture of her madness, her face wearing the vacant stare of the insane, her expression asking him _why_ as the life drained from her features and the blood from her open throat – giving way in turn to images of Nellie Lovett, smiling at him, her dark eyes so intense with adoration as she gazed up at him while they'd waltzed in each other's arms, her face etched with ecstasy as she sighed her delight in the throes of their passion –

…_what's dead is dead…_

"No," Todd answered. "No one."

"Well," said Johnson, in a serious voice, "that's good, I think. At least you won't leave no widow or nothin'. And it's a good thing you ain't got family to get mixed up in all that mess over there."

Todd's pulse skipped unpleasantly, in that same feeling of dread that had slammed into him when the beadle had burst through the shop door, demanding to see the bake house. "Mess?" he echoed, his tone clipped.

"Aw yeah. It's all right here, I got hold of the Atlanta paper today. It's a couple weeks old already, but it's hard to get anything new when you're in the field – "

And he took the tin cup from Todd's hand, replacing it with the paper he'd been tapping against his leg. "Page four," he offered; and Todd, feeling more and more ill by the moment, accordingly turned there.

Towards the bottom of the page was the bold title HORROR IN LONDON ENDS AT LAST above a small artist's rendition of a gallows, with three hooded figures suspended from nooses before the eyes of a cheering crowd. The caption told him that this was meant to represent Newgate Prison in London.

"They didn't catch the barber yet," Johnsons was saying; "but that woman…"

And horror bloomed in Todd's chest as his eyes lit on the name _Eleanor Lovett_ in the same instant Johnson mentioned her.

Frenziedly he searched the article for any mention of his own name – but he didn't find it. He was only referred to obliquely, as "the fiendish barber" or "the infernal mastermind of the inhuman scheme" and the like. No physical description was offered. Young Ragg wasn't even mentioned.

But Nellie…

Johnson was droning on and on; Todd ceased to register any words except the ones he was silently absorbing as he returned to the top of the article. It was short and to the point, briefly recounting the essentials of the discovery of mass murder on Fleet Street and the arrest of the female baker complicit in the crimes. Todd was just starting to wonder what the illustration of three hanging victims had to do with anything, when his eyes lit on these words:

…_severely beaten and violated by her guards, which resulted in her death._

Todd's eyes stopped at that sentence, and would not leave it.

"Todd?"

Somewhere through the fog that had begun shrouding his mind, he registered this voice…

"Get out of here, Johnson."

"You all right, To – "

"_GET OUT OF HERE!"_

The boy was gone before the last word left Todd's mouth, leaving the barber alone and in silence once more.

She was gone.

He went so still that the crickets, so long quiet, hiding from his and Johnson's voices, began singing again.

…_severely beaten and violated…resulting in her death…_

He told himself that the anger roiling in his chest was due to her years being cut short. After all, he'd wished her a long life of suffering – it had only been a few weeks; she hadn't suffered nearly long enough…Yes, he decided – that was the reason for the suffocating rage welling up inside him. She'd escaped his curse.

But he couldn't deny the sickening sensation of bile rising in his throat when he looked at the drawing of the three guards – the railing, impotent fury he felt at the knowledge that they were beyond his reach, that he couldn't visit retribution on them himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut against what they'd done to her.

His hand clenched on the paper, crumpling it till his fist was shaking. He swallowed the howl waiting in the pit of his stomach, blind with wrath – towards the guards, towards her, towards himself. He made himself see once again the broken body of his wife, remember why he'd lost her: he filled his mind with Lovett's treachery, and his skin crawled with the memory of her touch, her every word a draught of poison, every brush of her lips the kiss of Judas.

_It's no less than she deserved,_ he told himself – whispered it aloud, in fact – channeling all of his hatred towards her, and her alone. He smiled his bitter, caustic smile, willing himself to feel triumphant. No matter that she'd met a quick end to the anguish he'd inflicted on her – she'd been made to pay for her part in murdering his Lucy, and for what she'd done to him.

It was only justice. He was only angry because he'd never have a chance, now, to wrap his own hands around her throat.

So why did he feel so…

_Hollow. _

As though some angry god had taken hold of him and dashed him against a granite mountain, and he'd shattered and whatever was left of him had poured out, desiccated, like sand…

_There's a hole in the world, like a great black pit…_

His own words came back to him; but now they spoke of the space that Nellie Lovett used to occupy…empty now…

_Yes – empty, because she's burning in the lowest pit of hell, where she belongs…_

"Todd!"

He spun, rifle at the ready, though he knew by the use of his name that it was one of his own men. He didn't care. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He was parched for blood, and he was going to ram his bayonet into the first moving body that presented itself…

"Get your sorry ass back to camp!" the voice said as its owner caught up with it.

It was MacMullen.

"We're movin' out!" the big Georgian continued. "Just got word, Jackson's movin' up to Manassas Junction. Yanks got munitions up there and we're gonna do some creative borrowin'."

A grin worthy of a fiend spread across Todd's face. "That so?"

"Come on, we ain't gonna wait for ya," MacMullen called back over his shoulder, already jogging back the way he'd come.

Well.

_Well, well._

He'd be getting his chance after all, then – to wade into chaos, into the hailstorm of leaden shot he'd heard so much about…to walk across the path of Northern gunfire, and drag as many men into death as he possibly could before he himself went down.

He glanced back at the newspaper and once more found the name, _Eleanor Lovett_.

"I'll soon be there, my dear," he growled. "With my own hand I'll stoke the fire that torments you."

Swallowing down the pain in his throat, as though a stone had been lodged there, he viciously balled up the paper in his hand and hurled it into the darkness, his burning eyes watching the white orb vanish like a ghost before he turned and stalked away.

* * *

**A/N: **Props to Pamena for calling the Sweeney-thinks-Nellie's-dead thing. And go read her stuff too, 'cause it rocks the Casbah :D

I hope Sweeney didn't come across as too soft in the flashback. He isn't meant to. I was aiming more for a confused/angsty/frustrated/tortured soul idea.

Thanks for reading! **Please review!**


	7. We're Only Masking

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

**A/N: **WARNING: Slavery rears its ugly head in this chapter. Don't get too distressed that it seems all nice and tidy. The story isn't over yet ;) And like I said before - it's a historical fact; but if it offends you don't torture yourself by reading it :)

* * *

**7**

**We're Only Masking.**

Charleston was a bright city – all white and grand and shining as its stately buildings, square and pedimented and columned, like homages to Greek temples adorned with colorful flags, slipped slowly by in the carriage's lazy progress along the clean, broad streets. Brightly-dressed Charlestonians strolled past, ladies shouldering parasols and gentlemen touching their hat brims to acquaintances, occasional peals of laughter ringing the air. It seemed to Nellie an utterly different world than the one she'd left behind: a spotless, well-planned city of banks and churches, where no one was in a hurry and where the sun always shone in a powder-blue sky.

You'd never know, she thought bemusedly, that it was embedded in the thick of a war-torn nation.

It was hot, though. London had been constantly stifling, but in a different way: more the stuffy airlessness of so many (mostly ill-washed) human beings packed into an area too small to support them. This, the closeness of the American South, was a cloying, humid heat that Nellie tried ineffectually to beat away by waving her hand before her throat and face. She had no fan – hadn't thought of one, and blasted Danforth, so full of his own bleeding brilliance, hadn't equipped her with one. But the ride, at least, was passably comfortable, a fact for which Nellie was devoutly grateful after the grueling journey from Boston. She'd never traveled by train before, and when Danforth had placed the first-class ticket in her hand she'd been looking forward to the new experience. At first she'd been impressed. The ride on the Boston-Washington line had been smooth and timely and efficient – even rather luxurious. But because of restricted travel to the southern states, Nellie had been required to look up one of Danforth's associates in the Union capital and take a nerve-jangling carriage trip over rough side roads (and occasionally over no road at all) to Richmond, Virginia. From there she'd boarded another passenger train to complete the journey to Charleston – and this one was far, far inferior to the first. The going was alternately slow and breakneck jarring to the point of inducing nausea; several times she feared the rickety thing might jump the track, and one of her compartment-mates (a stunningly-dressed woman with an eerily well-behaved, golden-ringleted little girl by her side) had remarked that the Confederate rails were kept in ill repair due to funds being diverted to the war effort.

But the most insistent evidence of the ongoing conflict was not a harrowing ride in an arguably redundant railroad car. As she'd passed through the various cities and towns in both north and south, Nellie had observed the presence of uniformed young men, on the streets, on the station platforms, coming and going on the trains; she'd watched the colors of those uniforms change from blue to gray, and for the first time she understood that she was traveling between two completely different nations. Now, gazing at the activity along the edges of what must have been one of the main streets of the city, Nellie saw lads practically bouncing in their spit-and-polished shoes, brass buttons glinting in the sunlight on their dark grey jackets. They were so very young, vibrant, so full of life…they must be cadets; there must be an academy in the area somewhere. Nellie wondered if they knew what they were getting into, and figured they couldn't possibly: they'd likely read about war in books and poems and thought it was glorious…

And suddenly she was thinking about her boy, her Toby, and how he'd been sent off to God knew where, and was wearing a Northern uniform right now; and she hoped his mates would take to him and watch out for him and he wouldn't be too scared the first time a bullet scraped by his head – she hoped he'd be treated kindly if he were captured, or if his unit surrendered…

Her throat began seizing up. She'd promised herself she wouldn't do this – she _couldn't_; there was too much to focus on, too many other things demanding her absolutely undivided concentration.

Her very life depended on it.

She thought of her trunk and bags occupying the carriage's boot, containing an entirely new wardrobe. _"Can't have you looking like some washed-out upstairs maid," _Danforth had said back in Boston; and that very afternoon a dressmaker was sent to the Parker House to take Nellie's measurements. When the finished products arrived, Nellie had been more than pleased with the result; but she couldn't help remembering another dress, one she'd worn a lifetime ago it seemed – the first new dress she'd owned in literally years, one she'd been so proud of, a symbol of her success, the fact that her life was finally becoming one worth living…a dress she'd so hoped her Mr. Todd would notice…

Whether he did notice it or not, she never knew.

But a new array of splendid clothing was the least of things she had to get used to. At least she knew the garments fit. Her new persona, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. During her journey from Boston she'd had a chance to try on her new dialect – carefully taught by Danforth himself. When he'd told her of the need to alter her speech, she'd been nothing short of terrified. This, surely, would be the thing that ended up sinking the deal. _"Oh, don't worry, I don't ask you to sound like the queen,"_ Danforth had told her; _"but you can't go about in polite society sounding…well, like _that_."_ He'd been most encouraging in his all-too-brief lessons; but foraying into this unaccustomed affectation with other people, out in the world at large, proved utterly nerve-wracking. It felt forced, awkward; she was sure she'd slip, leave off a beginning H or an ending G or – worse – utter a bit of slang, like "bugger" or "blimey" or (horrors!) her habitual "bloody hell". She couldn't possibly keep up this pretense, she felt certain. It was driving her to sheer exhaustion, the effort of constantly monitoring herself, watching every move she made and every word she spoke…

Then again – she'd told herself – hadn't that been how she'd existed all those years, after Albert passed? She'd made a livelihood of pretending: running a redundant business, putting on an act for the men who sought her favors from time to time (the only way she'd gotten through any of that was to close her eyes and whisper _"Benjamin"_; and the blighters never cared, if they noticed at all), snowing the whole of London into believing they were consuming the best pork pies they'd ever tasted.

Pretending Lucy Barker was dead.

Pretending Toby Ragg was her son. Pretending Sweeney Todd loved her.

In her prison cell, now an ocean away, Edington had told her he'd selected her because she was skilled in deception. Well, if nothing else, Nellie Lovett was that. Deception – to the depth of deceiving even herself – had been the currency of her survival for so long, it had become her very nature, her first response to any situation that felt remotely threatening. And she needed to survive now. She would not allow herself to be placed within reach of that mob again…never again…

Such thoughts put steel in her spine as the carriage wound its way along the busy Charleston streets, threading through the traffic of other fine conveyances, until finally the driver made a turn that led to an especially wide expanse of road, and Nellie gasped, her hand unconsciously moving to her heart.

Before her eyes lay the blue and gold sea, gleaming almost blindingly under the sun. Of course she hadn't lacked for the sight on the crossing from England; but it never failed to affect her, no matter how many times she looked on that vast, endless stretch of ocean. She couldn't quite define what it was about the sea that always got to her so, down in the very core of her soul, ever since she could remember. Perhaps it was the sense of freedom, of possibilities never yet dreamed of, that somehow seemed within reach when the eye was no longer distracted by buildings and other people. Perhaps it was the constancy of the sea – its eternal changelessness, its stability-in-restlessness, its uncanny way of being always the same yet always different, always moving.

The way life itself ought to be, but cruelly wasn't.

Reminders of this last thought intruded on Nellie's mind when she realized that the shore was lined with artillery batteries as far as the eye could see. Further out, breaking up the calmness of the water were small islands built up with great gray bulks of stone – fortifications guarding the approach to the city, Nellie surmised – and beyond, darkly dotting the otherwise clear horizon, great hulking ships sat at anchor.

Glancing to her left, away from this evidence of the constant threat lurking at the edges of Charleston's genteel appearance, Nellie blinked in astonishment. Gliding past her vision was a line of some of the finest homes she had ever laid eyes on, rivaling even the mansions of London's wealthiest citizens: bow windows and turrets curving gracefully out from spacious porches, where men and women sat sipping drinks that looked tantalizingly cool in their tall, ice-filled glasses…each upper floor with its own balcony, and roofs surrounded by balustered widow's walks overlooking the sea…"Idle buggers," Nellie murmured to herself, wondering, as she so often had on those rare occasions when she'd passed through London's more moneyed neighborhoods, how on earth people managed to acquire so much wealth.

And just as she had this thought, to her astonishment the carriage made a turn to the left, and her jaw nearly dropped when the vehicle pulled up a short drive and stopped exactly before the front door of one of the most impressive of these buildings.

_Blimey…_

Well, Danforth had said the man was rich.

Doors, plural, was a closer description of the entrance to this grand edifice: great black double doors set in a white façade behind classic-style columns. As Nellie stared at them, and tried to peer through the windows for a glimpse inside, a knock on the side of the carriage startled her. It was the driver – an old, bent, bow-legged slave, with tired eyes set in a face like a wrinkled brown chestnut. Nellie felt the carriage shift as the driver's companion – a muscular, strapping young man she'd seen with the driver at the train station, jumped down from the perch and began moving her luggage from the boot.

"This's Cap'n Beaumont's house, ma'am," said the driver, opening the door and jerking his head towards the house behind him. "You jus' go right on up to the doors there an' ring the bell. They's expectin' you."

"Thank you," Nellie said absently, still unable to tear her eyes from the windows, eager to see what lay beyond.

"We'll send your things right on up to your room, they'll be waitin' for you…"

"Yes…"

Willing her feet to move forward, Nellie mounted the wide, shallow stone steps to the porch, approached the doors, and pressed her finger to the button on the right-hand frame.

_Here we go._

Not five seconds had passed before one of the doors – as it happened, the one she was standing directly in front of – swung open; and Nellie had to force herself not to react to the man she saw framed in the doorway: impeccably dressed, so tall she had to quite crane her neck to look into his face – a face so dark it was like a portrait sculpted in ebony, framed by a well-trimmed beard, lighted by the most piercing eyes Nellie had ever seen.

"Miss…Templeton, yes?" the slave asked, his voice a deep and booming bass.

Nellie swallowed; but outwardly she was cool as one of those drinks she'd seen people sipping on their porches, as she answered "The very same."

Without another word, the butler nodded solemnly and stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter; and she moved past him into a high, spacious foyer, sunlight pouring in as though the very walls were made of glass, a thickly-carpeted staircase sweeping up to the next floor. Nellie drew off her gloves, for the sole purpose of being able to stare down at them in her hands, making it easier to avoid gaping at her surroundings and appear as though she'd lived in such luxury all her life.

The butler stepped past her, saying "Come this way"; and she followed him across the entry and through a wide archway into a well-appointed parlor. Nellie was surprised by the simplicity of the room: white paneling, straight-backed chairs, a few little tables arranged close at hand to support drinks or smoking apparatus. It had the _feeling_, somehow, of a bachelor's home, lacking that indefinable something that would signal a woman's influence.

"Captain Beaumont would want you to make yourself comfortable while you wait," the butler boomed from the doorway. "He'll only be a moment. In the meantime, may I pour a glass of claret for you?"

She half-turned. "Oh, no thank you, I'm sure."

The man blinked, and his brow furrowed just the slightest bit; but he quickly recovered and nodded curtly. "Very well, ma'am," he said, then turned and left her alone.

She was thankful for the chance to regain her breath, to collect her thoughts. So much had happened in such a short space of time; she'd barely had a moment to adjust to this new life, to this radically new world…Drawing deep, steadying breaths, she stepped towards the picture window at the far end of the room, and found herself looking out on a beautiful flower garden at the back of the house, snaked through with narrow paths of fine gravel, stone benches placed in the shade of slender blossoming trees.

"It's lovely for a walk in the evening, when it's nice and cool."

Startled by this new voice, Nellie spun around, and saw a man who could only be her host, Nathan Beaumont, strolling lazily into the room.

If anyone had asked her in that moment how she found the captain's demeanor, she might have used the word _striking_, without really feeling the description did him justice. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore the dark gray uniform of a high-ranking Confederate officer, adorned with twisting ropes of gold braid advertising his position; but he was hatless, revealing a tumult of light-chestnut hair that fell in soft waves till it just touched the collar of his jacket. An unruly cowlick tumbling over his brow gave him rather a boyish air; but the well-trimmed moustache and long goatee framing his gently smiling mouth offset this impression. His stride was relaxed, casual – confident, the step of one who is master of all he surveys and knows it. When he drew near her, he took Nellie's hand and pressed firmly it in both his own, regarding her with clear gray eyes, the color of an approaching storm, and drawled, "I'm honored to make your acquaintance at last, Miss Templeton."

This was it. No turning back now.

"The honor is mine, I assure you, Captain Beaumont," Nellie replied with a smile, mindful of her accent with every syllable.

"Oh, please," said the captain genially, still keeping hold of her hand, "call me Nathan. All my friends do. And I do hope that we can be friends, Miss Templeton, not just business associates. I find that the most successful business ventures are undertaken between friends, after all."

_Business ventures between friends…yes indeed…_

"Well, in that case I insist that you call me Nellie."

Beaumont smiled. "I'd like that. There's plenty of time to get better acquainted, though; I can see you're tired from your trip. I'm sure you'd like to rest a bit before dinner."

Indeed, only then did Nellie realize just how tired she really was. A sense of utter exhaustion was suddenly coming over her. "I am rather tired, now that you mention it," she said.

"This heat doesn't help," the captain remarked, looking concerned. Lightly taking hold of her elbow, he began leading her back towards the foyer, where the big slave who'd shown her in was standing by the stairs, still as a statue. "Marcus," Beaumont said, "show Miss Templeton to her room, will you? You remember which one I told you."

"Of course, sir."

"And tell old Jim to make up a pitcher of mint juleps. Have Hattie bring one up to Miss Templeton when she goes up to draw her a bath, and bring another to me in my study."

"Yes, sir."

"Make sure there's a good hard frost on the glass."

"Naturally, Captain."

Beaumont turned back to Nellie, and she could have sworn he offered a little half-bow. "I'll leave you in Marcus' very capable hands," he said. "In the meantime I need to occupy myself with the very thrilling business of signing a foot-high stack of paperwork."

"My condolences," Nellie said seriously, drawing a smile from him.

"My home is yours, for as long as you're my guest" he urged, mounting the first three steps with her.

Nellie fell in behind Marcus, trailing her hand over the wrought-iron railing, smiling at Beaumont over her shoulder, and silently answering, _Oh, don't worry, dearie. I'll be sure to make myself very much at home indeed._

*****************

_She waited till she heard the unmistakable sound coming from the bake house, and when she heard it she smiled. She couldn't wait to see him, but she forced herself to keep back a bit, give him time to recover. To distract herself, she grabbed up a cloth and started unnecessarily wiping down the counter, humming an improvised tune._

"_Mrs. Lovett, ma'am."_

_She looked up, glad for the distraction. "Yes, Toby dear."_

"_Crust is rolled. Anythin' else I can do?"_

"_No, dear, I think you've done more than enough. You can turn in and sleep the sleep o' the just," she winked._

_He grinned. "Right, ma'am. See you in the mornin', then."_

"'_Night, love."_

_When he was gone, Nellie figured enough time had passed, and she headed out the door and up the stairs to Todd's shop, practically running despite the aching creak in her knees. She huffed, exasperated. _Barely forty years old and I feel like bleedin' eighty…_ Perhaps, if she prevailed upon Mr. Todd in just the right way (and caught him in one of his better moods), he might agree to give her a good muscle rub. He'd done that for her last week after she'd dropped enough hints, and he'd been rather skilled at it too. She'd asked him where he'd learned it, and he'd mumbled that it wasn't much different than the scalp and face massages he gave his customers._

_Smiling in anticipation of this treat, Nellie peered through the murky glass of Todd's door, trying to discern whether this was a good time to approach him. And there he was, his_ _profile turned to the door, his shirt sleeve dark with blood, slowly, almost thoughtfully, running a cloth over the blade of his razor._

"_Why don't you just come in, Mrs. Lovett?"_

_She jumped as though he'd snapped at her. The man was uncanny. Just when she thought he was completely unaware of her existence, he managed to surprise her. Only a few days ago she'd been convinced that he'd utterly shut out the sound of her voice during a rather one-sided conversation, and she'd thrown up her hands and cried "Mr. Todd, have you even heard a single word I've said?" and he'd stonily repeated every one of those words back to her, keeping his back turned to her as he did so. Such occasions were rare indeed – typically he asked her if she hadn't just said something about the judge – but when they did occur they totally disarmed her._

_She entered the room and closed the door behind her, leaning back against it. _

"_I'll never understand why you hang about outside that bloody door," Todd said calmly._

_She quirked an eyebrow. "Well I don't always; but I never know what I'll be walkin' into sometimes, do I? You've tossed me out before with no reason. And rather angry about it too, I might add."_

"_Mmm."_

"_Can't blame me for bein' cautious where you're concerned, love." she went on, regarding him with big, shining eyes, her head tilted coyly to one side._

"_Don't make me laugh, my dear," Todd growled, sounding nowhere near laughing. "You're not afraid of me."_

_She winked, even though he wasn't looking at her. "No need, dear. We're the same, you and me."_

_Then his eyes cut over to her, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Thank you, pet," he nearly whispered._

"_Whatever for, Mr. T?" she asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it._

_He clicked his razor closed and moved to the bureau, carefully replacing the blade in its box as he spoke. "Sendin' him up."_

"_Mr. Cartwright."_

"_Jury foreman." He closed the lid, ran his fingertips lovingly across its front edge. "You remembered."_

"_You're very welcome, dear. I'll do anything I can, you know that."_

_He was moving towards her now, his teeth bared in a smirk, showing white in the dimness. "It was perfect. Even better than Dalton."_

_Her eyelids had begun drifting shut dreamily as she feasted her eyes on him. Suddenly he lunged forward and clamped his hand on her waist, pulling her away from the door, his other hand lifting hers, and they were whirling about the room, waltzing to their own silent tune. Nellie allowed her eyes to fall closed, letting him lead her movements, floating in a black void where nothing mattered, nothing was real, beyond the solidity of his arm embracing her, the coarse fabric of his waistcoat, the warmth of his hand enclosing hers…_

"_I could never do any of this without you, my dear," he breathed close to her ear, sending shivers down to her very bones. She sighed, perfectly content in this moment, when she could forget everything except the fact that they belonged to each other, finally, at last, as though they'd always been meant, as though their marriages to others had been merely an interlude in their lives, and this, now, had been their true destiny all along._

_Powerless against the emotion surging through her, she nuzzled his collar, taking the material in her teeth, running her hand up his arm, shuddering when her fingertips met the skin of his neck, pressing her lips to his jaw, twisting his hair in her fingers…They were still spinning together, no longer waltzing but simply twirling with abandon; and she felt him begin to yield, his hands pressing her lower back, bringing her closer, his head dipping to her shoulder…she was growing dizzy –_

_And then he stopped their motion so abruptly that she staggered, causing her eyes to fly open. She was saved from falling by his hands grasping her elbows – but this was only to shove her away from him. She blinked, disoriented, trying to get her bearings in the room, and saw that they'd danced right to the edge of his cot. _

_His footsteps were heading away from her rapidly, and she instinctively turned to the window. Sure enough, there he was, making for those glass panes as though they'd save his life; and when he reached them he leaned his forearm against the leaden fittings, fixing his gaze on the city below. Even across the room, Nellie felt that all the life of the last few moments had gone out of him, as suddenly and completely as a candle flame in a rogue draft._

Damned insufferable man. Like bleedin' mercury, he is.

"_Not here," he snarled. "Never here."_

_Nellie's heart, soaring only a moment ago, plummeted like a stone. Of course. This was the space he'd shared with his Lucy. He wouldn't be willing to share it...to taint it by any dalliance with another woman._

_But her head was still reeling deliciously from their impromptu waltz, and she decided to humor him. He was hers now, after all – she could indulge him a few quirks. If he wanted to preserve this upper storey as a shrine, where he acted as high priest offering daily blood sacrifices to Lucy's memory, let him – for the time being, at least. Such a situation couldn't last forever; but in the meantime, she reminded herself, it didn't change the facts. They were still lovers, Nellie and her Mr. Todd, no matter what room they happened to be standing in at the time._

_She was glad he couldn't see her, separated as they were by the darkness of the room, his face turned from her, because she could not bite back the smile that came to her lips as she savored those words in her mind. He was her lover, and had been for the past two and a half weeks, since they'd spent that night in front of the parlor fire. To her great regret she couldn't remember much of it, not in detail – he'd shocked the living hell straight out of her, the way he'd seized her like that; and everything had happened so fast, they'd been so urgent and desperate to slake the terrible thirst that had left them both wanting and needing and yearning, in their own separate ways, for too, too long. She'd been too lost in her own elation that her gradual and skillful approaches had taken effect, and he was finally responding to them. But she knew this: it surpassed the clumsy efforts of words to describe, having the man who was the end of all her desire, feeling him in her arms, being one with him – she'd seen later the marks she'd left on him, from clutching him so fiercely, as though afraid he'd slip away from her embrace – being free to inhale his scent as much as she liked, till she was inebriated from it; tasting at last the sweet, salty tang of his skin after countless nights of only conjuring it in her dreams._

_She'd thought the whole thing _was_ a dream – till she'd awakened in the middle of the night and saw the hearth fire down to embers, felt that Todd's skin was cold, and got up to fetch a blanket, taking her place once more at his side for what remained of the night. _

_But the nights since then…those she remembered very well indeed._

"_All right," she said gently. "Will you come downstairs, then?"_

_He didn't answer._

"_For a drink, at least?" she tried. "Got a new bottle o' sherry this mornin', if you care to try it out. And then you can tell me all about Mr. Cartwright."_

_She knew he really wasn't hearing her, not this time. His eyes remained fixed intently on the rooftops of London, and he was silent and utterly still. Nellie sometimes wondered what he thought he might see out there. She'd always assumed he was on the lookout for the judge or the beadle, or contemplating the multitude of his potential victims. But sometimes the thought flitted through her mind that he was searching for his wife, his daughter, his lost innocence, as though these things were "out there" somewhere and could still be found; as though his old life still lived in the places he used to love and at any moment might come trooping up the street from Temple Bar. She had this feeling now, and it chilled her. At times like this she could almost feel the ghosts flocking around him. She'd seen him like this before, and she knew him well enough now to recognize when he would accept her approach, and when the wisest course would be to give him a wide berth. She suspected the latter option might be best just now; but the pull to him was so strong she wanted nothing more than to go to him, reach for him and draw him into her arms and tell him she was there, and she was all he needed, if only he could see her through the darkness of his lost heart. _

_She felt as though a quarter of an hour must have passed before he finally spoke. _

"_She's everywhere," he whispered, his voice barely audible._

Oh God…

_The very vast majority of the time, over the past two and a half weeks, it was easy for Nellie to believe that he belonged to her. It was just the two of them, and their partnership, and their secrets. It was even easy for her to cherish the idea that she'd finally constructed a family with him, whenever the boy – _her_ boy, Toby, the son she'd never been able to have – smiled at her, so eager to please, to fit into the household. But sometimes she would catch the barber in a black melancholy like this, and he would say things that made the truth of his obsession with the past sink in, and then it was hard, so damned hard, for her to keep the lovely dream from crumbling; and it hurt. But now, as she watched him standing by that window, he looked so stricken, and she knew he was in such agony, that her heart couldn't help breaking for him._

"_She used to sit by this window...watchin' me work, or rockin' Johanna to sleep…and now she's gone…but she's everywhere."_

_She supposed she ought to be glad that he confided his memories to her this way – he certainly wasn't the type to share his deepest feelings; and the fact that he even deigned to offer a part of them to Nellie was cause for hope, as far as she was concerned. Much as she wanted to leave the room and let him brood till his state passed, she couldn't leave him like this. Her desire to help him overcame the aching knowledge that she meant very little to him at all in this moment, and she moved towards him and placed a cautious hand on his arm._

"_Oh, love," she said sympathetically. When he didn't pull away from her (as he sometimes did), she rested her head on his shoulder, intending to remind him of her presence, bring him back to her. "Maybe it was a mistake to give you your old shop back, if it's gonna do this to you." Only when she heard her own words did she realize the truth of them. _Bloody hell…what was I thinking?...

_He blinked then, as though just waking from a half-doze, and his head snapped to her. "No. I can feel her here. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."_

_She wanted to slap him; but she couldn't be sure if the impulse was to hurt him as he was (unintentionally, she suspected) hurting her, or simply to jolt him out of this. "Mr. Todd, dear, come on down for a drink – "_

_Suddenly he grasped her shoulders – his hands firm, but not rough – "Did she ever say anything to you?"_

_Nellie could only close her eyes and pray for this to end._

"_Did she ever tell you why?" he went on – "I promised I'd come back for her and Johanna. Did she ever tell you…why she didn't believe me?"_

_Slowly, Nellie's eyelids lifted. His expression was desperate, pleading for her answer with his eyes. _

_The poor man deserved the truth, she knew._

_But she didn't give it to him._

"_Just lost hope, dear," she whispered quickly, looking directly into his eyes, delivering the lie without blinking, adding in her thoughts, _But I didn't…please believe that she did, and I didn't… _"You might've promised; but it ain't likely men come back from those places – "_

"_But how could she leave Johanna all alone, without a mother?" _

_Nellie cleared her throat quietly, acutely aware of the need to be very, very careful here. "She couldn't've been thinkin' right, love. Poor dear was out of her head with missin' you."_

"_I still can't believe she'd take her own life," Todd whispered, shaking his head. "I thought she'd be stronger…for Johanna – "_

_"Shh, dear," Nellie soothed him, drawing closer, her hands coming up to rest lightly on his chest. "Don't do this to yourself…" She fingered the collar of his shirt – he'd removed his cravat, and his shirt was open past his collarbones – allowing her fingertips to brush across his skin. _

_He tensed under her touch, but didn't pull away; and she risked placing a kiss on his breastbone – a first step on the way to displacing the memory of his wife from this room. "Come on downstairs…"_

"_In a minute," he said._

_But she lingered another moment, and it was only then that she discovered something she'd never noticed before. As her lips continued ghosting over the small bit of exposed flesh at his throat, her fingers ran across something coarse and hard, like a callous, just above the V where his shirt was buttoned. She pulled back and opened her eyes, and in the moonlight she saw a thick white mark, raised like a ridge, half-concealed by the edge of the material. He'd never removed his shirt in her presence, not even when they were intimate; he always insisted upon keeping it on, and fastened past a certain point, no matter how she might pull on it (and, on occasion, tear the fabric). Still, she thought that perhaps she might have clawed him a bit too deeply when she was out of her senses with ecstasy; and, half-amused by this possibility, she asked "Did I do this to you?" as she lightly touched the mark –_

_He flinched and swatted her hand away in reply, his eyes flashing with anger before he turned his back to her completely; and she took this as his silent warning that she needed to leave him. _

_Down in the parlor, she poured herself a glass of that sherry and waited up for him until midnight, finally retiring when he didn't appear, sure that he wouldn't come to her tonight._

_But she was wrong._

_A few hours later, she was awakened by the sound of his voice beside her, crying out violently in his sleep, and he allowed her to soothe him out of the nightmare._

*******************

A dull thudding noise pulled Nellie to consciousness.

Immediately on opening her eyes, she was disoriented, unsure of where she was at first…She was still in the bath, but the water had gone cold…and this room wasn't familiar; where the hell –

"Miss Templeton?" a timid, female voice sounded beyond the closed door.

Now it all came back to her. She was in America, in Charleston, in the home of Nathan Beaumont, against whom she was supposed to be committing espionage. The very thought still made her laugh inside, on occasion…Shortly after her arrival she'd been shown to her room, where her assigned maid had drawn her a hot bath; and she must have fallen asleep and dreamed –

_Shit._ Would these bloody dreams never stop?...

Well, she couldn't help what she dreamed. She could, however, help what she did about it; and she chose to ignore it, to pass it off as a side effect of the difficult journey she'd undergone, being in so many places in such a short span of time; and the stress of her position in this house. Not to mention the strength of the very curious yet delectable minty drink she'd been served…Well, no more of those (what the hell were they called?...) before napping. She couldn't afford to allow herself to sink into the morass of what she'd lost – couldn't allow the distraction. She needed to focus on what she was doing, one hundred percent and then some.

She rose from the tub just as another knock sounded, and the voice of her assigned personal maid called out, a bit louder, "Miss Templeton? You all right in there?"

"Yes," she answered. "Sorry…"

"Cap'n Beaumont wants you to know supper's on."

God…had that much time passed? It had been several hours, then…

"Uh…tell him I'll be right down."

"Yes, ma'am. You know where the dining room is?"

Of course she didn't. "No," she answered, hoping she didn't sound as annoyed as she felt as she tied on a dressing-gown and emerged from the bath, passing the old servant on the way.

"You take a right at the bottom of the stairs, then go down the hallway and it's the second big door on the lef'."

"Thank you, Hattie."

"I'll go let him know to be 'spectin' you."

Nellie dressed hurriedly, attempted to do something with her hair and gave up after two minutes, and rushed downstairs, running over Hattie's directions in her head, until she arrived at her destination: a large, dark room, outfitted with ponderous, masculine furnishings, its walls adorned with paintings of the hunt; and seated at one end of the long table was Nathan Beaumont, no longer dressed in his uniform but in a fine suit of civilian clothing. He rose with a smile when he noticed her entrance, and went to greet her.

"Nellie," he said, offering that small, charming bow of his as he took her hand – and, to her astonishment, raised it to his lips in a quietly gallant gesture she'd always read about, but had never experienced.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, as he pulled out a chair for her.

"Oh, not at all, not at all. Marcus – " Nellie noticed for the first time that the slave was standing at attention beside a door in the corner of the room – "please bring the wine; and you can let cook know to send out the first course."

Marcus nodded once, wordlessly, and vanished through the door.

"Marcus," Beaumont said, seating himself opposite Nellie and placing his napkin in his lap. "I'll hate to lose him. He's been with me a long time."

Nellie's brow furrowed. "Lose?..."

"Yes," the captain said. "I've educated him, you see, and plan to give him his freedom within the year."

This surprised her. "I didn't realize American slaveholders were in the habit of granting freedom to their main workforce," she remarked. "From what I've heard there's a fear of such things. Concerns that freedmen might organize a rebellion."

Beaumont chuckled quietly. "Habit, no. Not at all. But there are plenty of free blacks, many right here in Charleston. Whites here don't care too much for 'em, try to keep 'em from holding jobs and so forth. There _was_ an incident a couple years back, up at Harper's Ferry, an uprising of escaped slaves such as you mention, caused a big panic all over the South. But there's something special about Marcus. I've never seen such a brain on anyone, black or white. Way I figure it, it'd be a waste to keep him here." Then the captain's face changed, grew sad and distant. "Folks don't understand what I'm doing for Marcus. Especially my sister."

"Oh?" said Nellie, her ears perking up at this potentially useful bit of information. The best way for her to learn about this man, she thought, would be to first learn everything she could about his life, and move to his political ambitions from there.

"Yes," he answered, appearing suddenly uncomfortable – perhaps, Nellie thought, he felt he'd revealed too much about his personal circumstances. "Our…differing opinions do tend to cause some difficulties. It's an issue I try not to raise with her, for the sake of peace in the family."

"And does your sister live here in Charleston as well?"

"Oh no, she and her husband spend most of their time at Elysium. The countryside is better for the children, really, fresh air and room to play and such. And havin' her there benefits me, as well. In such an isolated place, you see, a bachelor needs a chaperone," he added wryly. "My sister and her family provide that when I'm there. Here in the city, the gossip of…so-called polite society is chaperone enough."

Nellie smiled, his tone was so self-effacing; but she found his subtle dig at his peers quite curious. "You mentioned children?"

"My little niece and nephew, Millicent and Jefferson."

"Is this Elysium a town, then?"

Beaumont smiled fondly. "Elysium is my plantation in Georgia. It's a bit far to travel; but my father built that plantation and I grew up there, and…well, I guess I'll always think of Georgia as home. I only keep this house in the city as a convenient place to conduct business, meet with political associates, that kind of thing. No," he sighed, and his eyes grew distant – "my real life is at Elysium. In fact, I'll be heading back there next week. I'm sure our negotiations won't be settled by that time."

"No, indeed," said Nellie, just as Marcus reappeared with a bottle of wine, uncorked it with a flourish, and began pouring some of the rich red liquid into her glass. "I certainly won't want to undertake such a long journey again so soon, at any rate." _Or ever again…_

Beaumont leaned forward eagerly, his face alight. "I'd like very much if you'd accompany me there. I'll be glad to show you Elysium, Nellie. Then you can see the real South, and you can write your uncle and tell him exactly what he'd be helpin' us fight to preserve." He paused, and continued, almost shyly, "If our negotiations aren't settled by December, I'd love to have you as my guest at the Christmas ball. You haven't seen Elysium properly till you see it all dressed up for the winter holidays – "

He broke off, and looked away from her, fixing his attention on his wine glass. "You'll have to forgive me, Nellie. I get a little sentimental when I talk about home."

"Perfectly understandable," she said. "I should think it inconvenient, though, to have such a grand event so far away from the city."

The captain laughed easily. "Oh, Christmas at Elysium lasts for days on end. It's the only place big enough to accommodate all our guests. But enough about me. My life is terribly dull. I'd like to hear about your home, in England. I've never had the honor of visiting that country."

Nellie smiled. She knew exactly what to tell him – Danforth's incessant drilling had made certain of that – and the majority of their dinner conversation was occupied in her talking about what it had been like to grow up in a family of shipbuilders. But Beaumont was reticent about his own life, shrugging off her questions with brief but courteous answers and always managing to steer the subject back to Nellie. That was fine – there was plenty of time to find out more about him. She needed to be careful, she knew, not to push too hard. Too strong a display of interest might put him on his guard. She needed to discover his temperament first, learn how to deal with him, find the best way of approaching him.

Besides – she was beginning to think she could adjust rather well to this kind of life. She'd be willing to make it last as long as she possibly could.

She accepted when he asked her to accompany him on his evening walk in the garden, the weather was so fine; and said she wouldn't mind if he smoked his pipe.

"I hope dinner was to your liking," Beaumont said; and she replied "Very much." In fact it was the best dinner she'd ever tasted, but she couldn't go on about it too much. She had to act as though she was used to this kind of thing.

"Good. I want you to see the very best of Southern hospitality while you're here, I won't settle for anything less. Can't give your uncle the idea that we're a bunch of ill-bred barbarians; our cousins to the north already have that idea."

"You're very kind, Captain Beaumont."

"Nathan," he corrected her instantly.

"Nathan," she repeated. "Perhaps tomorrow we can discuss my uncle's proposal. He's very eager to know what you and your cause have to offer."

Beaumont's eyes narrowed. "I'm sure a mutual arrangement would benefit both the CSA and the people of Great Britain," he said. "Did you happen to notice those big vessels out in the harbor beyond the Battery?"

"Battery?"

"Oh! I _am_ sorry; you haven't had a chance to get familiar with the city yet. We're on the Battery, here."

"Yes, I did see ships off the coastline; I thought they were CS Navy ships."

Beaumont shook his head sadly. "That was the Union blockade."

Nellie nodded. "Yes…my uncle told me all about that. In fact," she added, injecting pride into her voice, "I'm sure you'll be interested to know that his company built some light vessels for running that blockade."

"Well they won't be comin' in here anymore, not since the Yankees tightened things up." He stopped his slow stroll, took a thoughtful pull on his pipe, and looked up at the sky. "Charleston looks untouched by the war, but the truth is we're only masking. The city barely survived a Union assault last year. Since then folks have thought we're invincible, but…" He hesitated, as though collecting himself; and for the first time Nellie realized that the man took all of this very, very seriously – that it lived someplace deep in him, that he really believed in his nation. He wasn't simply another opportunist, a war profiteer taking advantage of a bad situation to advance his own ambitions.

She knew too, in that moment, that this quality could be made use of.

She waited for him to continue – he looked as if he wanted to – but he only took a breath and said, "There's plenty of time to talk about all that. Tomorrow I'd like to show you the city, how does that sound?"

"Sounds lovely," Nellie answered sincerely.

"Good," he said, brightening up a bit. "I'm looking forward to it already."

He led her back to the house and bade her goodnight at the foot of the stairs – kissing her hand again – and she went to her room. As she settled in for the night, drifting off almost the instant her head sank into the pillow, she congratulated herself on two things. One, getting through her first day as a spy without being discovered. It was an exhilarating feeling. Going back over her conversations with Beaumont in her mind, she thought she did rather admirably, all in all. Even her new accent had been flawless. And best of all, she had a plan of approach. There had been no mistaking the way Beaumont had been looking at her all through the evening, when he thought she didn't see his eyes. Gaining his confidence would be far easier than she had anticipated – and the prospect wasn't all that unpleasant, really. He wasn't a bad-looking chap…But she was certain that, whatever she was looking for (and she still didn't know what that was, but suspected she'd recognize it when she found it), she wouldn't find it here. She had a hunch that she'd only find it at Elysium. Beaumont's tone in talking about the plantation had given her the strong feeling that his heart was there, and accordingly it would be the location of all his most cherished ambitions. In the meantime, this stay in the city would give her an opportunity to observe him before embarking on the more risky aspects of her task.

And two – it appeared, so far, that she was doing a splendid job of undoing Sweeney Todd's curse on her life. He'd wanted her to suffer, and she wasn't – not anymore, anyway. Far from, indeed. How she wished she knew where to find him, so she could inform him of this fact, see his face when she told him that she was living in the lap of luxury, waited on hand and foot, in the company of a man who treated her very decently. Ah yes, how she wished she could see his reaction…

_How I wish I could see your face,_ was her last thought before slipping off to sleep; but she was too tired, by then, to know what she meant by it.

* * *

**A/N: **So is it too talky? I have a feeling it's moving kind of slow...but I needed to introduce Beaumont. And what do you think of him? **Please review** and let me know. And I promise lots of action in the next chapter: Sweeney is going to get his first taste of combat :D Thanks for reading!


	8. Dulce et Decorum Est

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

* * *

**8**

**Dulce et Decorum Est.**

_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori ("It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country"). – Horace, Odes III._

Thirty miles in a single day.

That was how far Major General James Longstreet had driven the thirty thousand-man army corps under his command: among these ranks, the First Texas Regiment of Gen. John Bell Hood's brigade. They marched to reinforce Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson's wing of the army, which, by the time the Texans approached Thoroughfare Gap, had already destroyed the Orange and Alexandria Railroad at Bristoe Station, depriving Union General Pope of his vital supply and communications route through Virginia, and in the process looting and burning Pope's mammoth supply base at nearby Manassas Junction. The operation was a bait – the Yankees were not likely to let Jackson's brash offensive go unanswered; Pope was certain to mount a counterattack, and by drawing the enemy out in this way the Confederates could engage and decimate the blue-clad Army of the Potomac. Most importantly, a victory here would clear a route through Virginia, and then nothing could stop the southerners from plowing into Maryland – and from there, to Washington itself. Along the way Longstreet's force had encountered minor resistance, small skirmishes here and there with few to no casualties. Even Thoroughfare Gap itself had been only sparsely attended, the Yankees apparently believing they had only Jackson to deal with and concentrating their defense around him, not expecting Longstreet's approach. It was short work for the men in gray to push through light Federal defenses and link up with Jackson. During these scrapes, taking place chiefly through volleys fired at a distance, Private Sweeney Todd discovered that he didn't care too much for guns.

Guns, the former barber found, were big and clumsy and cumbersome. They required no real skill, no finesse. Any monkey could learn how to fire a gun, Todd thought; and firearms were too impersonal to boot. Picking off a silhouette from twenty yards away was simply…well, dull. And inhuman, really. The act of depriving a man of his life, Todd thought, needed to be close – a man ought to know his conqueror, ought to be able to look into his eyes in his last moment. If blood was to be spilled, it ought to flow over both parties, a kind of silent agreement to the transaction taking place. Now, in the dark of early night after taking the Gap and joining Jackson's men, at rest yet on the alert with his regiment, hovering on the left flank of Pope's forces in anticipation of a major confrontation on the morrow, the former barber longed to taste that kind of interaction again. He was convinced that the feeling that his life was vindicated by such an act, that it gave purpose to his existence, would fill the black and silent pit within him – the void that had opened on the day of his arrest so long ago and had only kept widening every moment since.

Besides – what else was left to him?

He sat on the ground, a bit apart from the men who'd banded together in a circle of fellowship – his blockade-runner mates Rayburn and MacMullen, the youth Johnson, and a few other enlisted men, playing poker with tobacco and petty coin serving as ante, laughing and enjoying some good whiskey that Jackson's men had shared from the spoils of their raid on Pope's warehouse. Todd harbored a kind of bemused respect for these men – all of them, the entire complement of Longstreet's corps. He'd certainly never expected the military to be a stroll in the park – in fact, he'd hoped it wouldn't be; and fifteen years in prison had taught him not to shirk trying circumstances – but the degree of deprivation he'd seen in camp life had startled even him. Prison was one thing; but he'd thought a government might care better for the men putting their lives literally on the line to defend it. Yet there they were, a number of victories to their credit and poised for an incursion into Maryland. The tenacity of these men was incredible, Todd thought; and he often wondered what drove them on, what could possibly compel them to endure and risk so much. His regiment's veterans had seen real horrors, so extreme that some would never speak of them. Those who did tell stories, though, told of men in the front lines vanishing in a pink mist, or being ripped in half by Yankee artillery shells – and these were the fortunate ones. Others were carried alive from the field only to lose limbs that had been shattered by the impact of a minie ball, or to be patched up as well as possible before being sent home with open wounds that would never fully heal. Yet the veterans kept on, knowing the same fate could be theirs at any moment. Some had been conscripted; others had deserted – but the very large majority had volunteered, and stayed. Todd had seen exactly what survival required in the colony – had learned it and put it into practice himself – but those conditions had been forced on him, as a prisoner. These men by his side now _wanted_ to be here, and while on one hand Todd could respect their ferocity, on the other he was utterly baffled as to why any of them would willingly put themselves through such hardship.

Todd wasn't in the mood for cards, though the men had tried to get him to join in, instead running a cloth over his bayonet, polishing it to a soft gleam in the low firelight. He was getting anxious for battle, and the action somewhat calmed his mind while he was forced to wait. Waiting…army life mostly consisted of waiting, Todd was finding: waiting for orders, waiting in line at mess call, waiting for something to happen on picket duty, marching to a new location and waiting about some more. So far, military living had hardly met his expectations of frequent and bloody combat. He was getting bored, restless, and that was bad for his mind. Left idle, he was prone to wander in all manner of unwelcome memories; and his reluctant participation in cards and dice with his comrades never helped. All he wanted in the days left to him was to think of his wife as she'd once been, during those few short years they'd been happy; but he couldn't. His time in the colony had begun stripping those years away, and now only the briefest images flashed through his mind, weak and washed-out and soundless. He remembered that he'd been happy then, that he'd had peace – not feeling these things over again as he recalled them, but knowing they'd once been true. Almost as though they weren't his own memories at all, but a story he'd once heard about another man's life, a long time ago.

But now, with the promise of action so close, he had reason to hope that his mind would finally go dark.

He was drawn out of his thoughts rather abruptly, by a prodding sensation at his left elbow. It was Johnson, shuffling over to him, extending one hand, offering Todd a small object. "Hey Todd," the boy hissed. "Look here, Davis's showin' around a picture of his girl."

Tom Davis was a fellow private, a green recruit like Todd and the others, who'd attached himself to the small group during the thirty-mile march towards the Gap. He leaned forward, looking past MacMullen and grinning, and explained, "That's my Sarah. Right pretty, ain't she? I keep that little frame in my haversack, goes everywhere with me."

Todd didn't want to look, tried to keep his eyes averted, focused on the keen blade in his hands; but Johnson was thrusting a small oval frame under his nose and he figured that only humoring his young comrade would get this over with. So, reluctantly, he shifted his eyes to the little tintype. The image was difficult to see in the dark beyond the firelight; but from what Todd could tell, this "Sarah" was a rather plain girl. But when Davis' voice sounded again, there was no missing the wistful longing in his tone. "She understood when I told her I wanted to enlist," he said softly. "Her last letter…she don't like me bein' in the army. Wished I'd joined the navy instead. But I'm gonna make it home to her. I promised. We're gonna be married when all this is over…"

_He rather enjoyed having a woman. Particularly this one. She understood him – he could see it in her eyes, in the glances they exchanged across his balcony in the midst of a busy day, or in the quiet of evening when they sat before the fire in silence – and this was something he would have thought impossible. Not even his beloved Lucy, rest her soul, could have understood the man who'd returned to her. She would have tried; she would have continued to love him, there was no doubt of that. But true understanding? He doubted it. _

_He liked watching Lovett – only when she was busy at work, of course; he didn't want her to catch him staring. If she did, she'd lock her eyes onto his, and then he'd have to look away. But when he thought it safe he'd allow himself to admire her form, her movements, the striking lines of her face in profile when she turned just a certain way. She was rather nice-looking, he allowed – increasingly so over the past several weeks, as money began coming in and they'd been able to afford three good meals a day, and she was getting healthier and beginning to fill out her clothes rather nicely… _

_Before he'd seen her behind that filthy counter when he'd first come back, he hadn't set eyes on a woman in fifteen years._

_Oh, the prison authorities hadn't forgotten that the men in their charge had certain…frustrations; and the prisoners' needs in that line weren't neglected. In a hope of curbing violence and stopping the inmates from buggering one another, the warden sent for whores from the nearest settlement, every three months. At first, Benjamin Barker hadn't even been tempted to take advantage of this…privilege, as it was officially labeled. He'd simply removed himself from the immediate area, finding a solitary place and blocking his ears and squeezing his eyes shut, calling to mind those memories of his old life that he still managed to hold on to._

_But his fellow prisoners laughed at him afterwards, and told him that he'd give in eventually. And after a time he started to believe them. The craving for a woman's company, the beauty of a woman's shape, the music of her voice, the softness of her touch – it became unbearable. But he ground his teeth till they almost broke and gripped his own left hand – where his wedding band used to reside, before it had been confiscated immediately upon his arrest – and clamped his eyes closed and repeated his wife's name in his mind, over and over and over, telling himself he wouldn't be here forever, that he'd make good on his promise to return to his family; and how could he face them, how could he ever be intimate with his dear wife again, even look her in the eye – how could he raise a daughter, for God's sake, if he'd consorted with whores? His family might never know; but he would. What had already happened, when O'Bannon had dragged him to the infirmary to get patched up – he wouldn't name it, no, it didn't bear thinking about – that had been bad enough, sufficient all on its own to make him ashamed in the presence of his wife's virtuous spirit. He would not compound the matter of his own volition, by sleeping with prostitutes. And this was what stopped him, kept him going to that solitary place, leaving before the women even arrived so they wouldn't turn his head, and telling himself these things. And it worked. He made himself like flint against his baser desires, purposely beat them into submission. Murdered them. And he wondered, sometimes, whether this, more than anything else, had been the real catalyst for his transformation – the thing that had finally pushed the weaker Barker away and brought the iron-willed Sweeney Todd to the surface. _

_So he hadn't even seen a woman until his sight had landed on Nellie Lovett that day. And he hadn't known what to do. Didn't even know how to talk to her, what to say. He'd nearly backed right out the door, he'd been so…lost. Dear God, he'd forgotten all about her. Hadn't expected to see any woman aside from his wife. It had shocked the hell out of him, as though he'd been suddenly thrown into a room with some bizarre creature from a distant and unexplored wilderness. When she put her hands on his shoulders to pull him into the room...he completely froze and could only allow her to drop him into a chair. He was –_

_Powerless._

_He learned just how powerless he was as she chipped away at the stone he'd made of his innate need, reminded him of what he'd told himself not to miss, what he hadn't allowed himself to covet. As he'd become more and more accustomed to her presence in his life every day – and his increasing reliance upon her shrewdness and her assistance in his plans – he'd begun to realize what a dreadful deprivation he'd suffered. She resurrected things in him that he'd been convinced were lost, a part of him he'd thought was dead forever, until at last he found himself falling upon her in front of a hearth fire, helpless against the drive to have her, all control gone. _

_Since then he'd simply given up and decided to enjoy what their arrangement – everything it entailed – offered him. So he watched her: the way she wove between tables and chairs so fluidly, the way she reached for a plate, poured out a pint of ale, raised a hand to dab a kerchief at her perspiring brow – all of it infused with that unique and unconscious grace that a woman possessed simply by virtue of being a woman._

_He'd sit and observe her when he closed his shop for an hour at noon, and she'd bring him a lemon crush – no alcohol, not during business hours; he needed good judgment and a steady hand for his work – and he'd see her smiling and nodding to a particular bloke, pouring on the charm; and the patron would rub his chin as though assessing the state of his stubble, and Lovett would knit her brows sympathetically and point to the stairs. And as the man rose and headed to Todd's shop, she'd cast the barber a glance full of a meaning only the two of them would ever comprehend…and later, while the rest of London slept, she'd make him glad she was there, and so willing. _

"_What will you do?" her voice came through the darkness on one such night, as she lightly stroked his back through the shirt he always kept on in her presence. "After the judge is gone."_

_He let out a long sigh, not looking at her, staring into the darkness of the room. Her question caught him off guard; he'd never so much as thought of anything beyond that event. And now, when he tried to envision that future, he saw nothing. No purpose, nothing to give impetus to his life. Not without his family to go on for. For a decade and a half, whenever he'd imagined the future it always included them; and he found that the absence of that vision left only a blank in his mind. It wasn't that he wouldn't _want _to have a future of some kind. It was simply that he didn't know what shape that future could possibly take. He'd never considered the matter. His life was gone. _

"_His cracked skull on your bake house floor is as far as I can see, my dear," he answered her. _

_She was oddly silent for some moments, before finally whispering, "Whatever happens, I'll be here. I'll always be here."_

But she wasn't here anymore, so what was left to him? Only the death he could inflict on other men, and the death that waited, in turn, for him.

He hated Tom Davis then, more than he'd hated any man in what felt like a very long time.

*************

"Nothin's gonna harm you, darling…"

"See those grates?...They go right down to the sewers…"

_He had to have forced her – had to – she couldn't have done such things on her own, couldn't, not ever, the good Lord had sent her for him and nothing from God could ever be so –_

_It all made sense now: why he was never allowed into the bake house, why Mr. Todd didn't want him upstairs unless he sent for him to go on some errand, why strange noises sometimes filtered down through the ceiling of the pie shop. He ran, and ran and ran, blind, splashing through he didn't like to think what in the darkness, till he realized he'd left her alone with that fiend, that monster who'd charmed her and seduced her and made sure she couldn't say no to him. Toby had seen the way she looked at the man, oh yes. He'd never seen such a look in anyone's eyes before, as if the barber was her very salvation. Even when Mr. Todd wasn't in the same room, Toby would see her with a book in her hand or staring into the fire or rolling out dough but not really paying attention to any of it, her eyes focused on something beyond the mundane surroundings of the shop or the parlor; and he knew she was thinking of _him_. It was no secret to Toby that the two of them were lovers; he'd seen Todd coming out of her room often enough in the mornings. He wouldn't have minded: he wanted his dear Mrs. Lovett to be happy, after all. But some needling at the back of Toby's mind insisted that Mr. Todd didn't deserve her devotion. There was something wrong about him – something Toby could never quite put his finger on, couldn't spell out even in his own mind. It wasn't anything obvious: Toby had never seen any hard evidence against the man (and now, tearing through the filth of London flowing about his feet, he berated himself for being so stupid – _stupid! stupid! stupid!_); it was only a feeling, and most of the time he brushed it off for Mrs. Lovett's sake, because he knew she loved Mr. Todd with something more than love, and he'd cut off his right arm before seeing her hurt._

_But that was precisely why he'd decided, one day, to confront her about her "tenant". Better she should hurt inside for a while, Toby reasoned, than suffer God only knew what at the hands of her lover. He nearly lost his nerve that morning, when on coming through the parlor door he'd seen them together, standing close, speaking in hushed voices…Mrs. Lovett saying something about "Be careful…jurists…too prominent" and Todd replying "I know what I'm doing, pet;" and she smiled rather wickedly – Toby didn't quite like the look it gave her, made him feel a bit queasy – and said "See you later then, love" with a strange tone in her voice…Todd squeezed her shoulder and turned towards the door, but she caught him by his jacket and placed a lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth, and he appeared to return the gesture, if mostly using his teeth could count as kissing._

_When the barber was gone, Mrs. Lovett stared after him a few long moments, then slowly moved around the counter with a long sigh and started her daily routine, humming happily. Toby had to steel himself for this – she'd be hurt, terribly hurt; but it had to be done before something worse happened to her…_

_He stepped into the room and said "Mornin' Mrs. Lovett, ma'am," chiding himself for the quaver in his voice and swallowing, steadying his breathing, suddenly noticing that his heart was thumping in fear. Maybe he wouldn't say anything, after all…who was he, anyway? Just a boy, just a lad, an employee, an apprentice; she'd throw him out, send him back to the workhouse._

_But, Toby thought, even in the workhouse he'd know he'd tried to help her; and perhaps that knowledge would be worth his loss._

"_Well! There's my boy," she greeted him with a wink and a grin. "Sleep well, love?"_

"_Yes ma'am."_

"_That's nice, dear."_

_True to his own morning pattern, Toby withdrew to the kitchen, retrieved a stack of plates, and carried them back to the shop. When he began placing them on the tables, he found that he was glad for this occupation, as it gave him an excuse not to look her in the eye, not to see her reaction to his words. He thought he could handle anything she might say or do to him, as long as he didn't see her face looking at him with anything but the affection he'd become accustomed to…_

"_Mrs. Lovett," he said suddenly, in a rush of breath._

"_Mm, yes dear?"_

_Toby kept his eyes on the plates, focused all his attention on centering them perfectly along the tables, spacing them exactly even…_

"_I…"_

_His voice froze._

"_Yes, love?"_

_Toby was suddenly shaking so badly that the plate he was holding nearly slipped from his hand, and he only just saved it from clattering to the table's surface. This had happened because his hands were growing slick with sweat, he realized; and his cheeks were burning from anxiety._

"_What is it?" Mrs. Lovett's voice came again, and this time Toby could hear concern lacing her words. He looked up and saw that her attention was riveted to him, her brow slightly furrowed, waiting for his answer. An uncomfortable lump rose to his throat, and he gulped it down because he wasn't about to cry, not even in front of her – he'd learned not to cry in the workhouse, it was a sign of weakness; the other boys would pounce on those who cried, and no one wanted that, good God no – but nobody had ever paid this kind of attention to Toby Ragg before, as though he was the only person in the world just at that moment. Or at least, in _her _world._

_Toby slowly walked to the counter and placed his hands on its edge so they wouldn't tremble. He suddenly realized he hadn't thought this through at all, and needed to choose his words carefully, on the spot. "You know," he began quietly, "I never had a mum and dad."_

"_Yeah," she said softly._

"_I…since I been here, I've felt like…I've got a real home. For the first time in my life, like. And…see, if I _did_ have a mum, I'd want her to be like you. I mean, you been so good to me, better than anyone else ever has, and you didn't have to; and…I'd do anythin' for you…that's why – "_

_But tears were already welling in her eyes, and she cut him off: "Oh, love. Come over here, come on," she said, as she came around the counter reaching for him. He only took one step towards her before he found himself wrapped up in her warm embrace, and he couldn't help but hug her tight in return, because no one had ever held him like this, like he'd imagine a mother might hold her son; and he feared he might not be able to keep the tears back this time._

"_I always wanted a little boy, you know," she whispered to the top of his head. "Or a little girl, come to that. Me and my Albert were never blessed, though. But," she added with a light sniff, pulling back to regard him fondly and ruffling his hair, "now you're here, and Mr. Todd, all livin' and workin' together, we're a right regular family, aren't we?"_

Oh God.

_And that was it. He couldn't tell her. He couldn't._

"_Yes ma'am," he whispered._

_Her words affected him, more than he would have thought. He'd never thought of Mr. Todd as family; but clearly Mrs. Lovett did. And after all, he'd never treated Toby badly. Sure, the man had a temper; but Toby had seen much worse. The barber had never lifted a hand to him as Pirelli had. Suddenly visions began flooding Toby's mind, of Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett getting married and adopting him and the three of them moving to the sea like Mrs. Lovett was always talking about and living in a nice little cottage with fresh air and being happy – _

_Then he pictured Mr. Todd smiling and laughing, and the vision vanished because it was just all wrong. He blinked. It was just…there was _something_…_

_But what was he going to tell her? That he had a vaguely strange feeling every time the barber looked his way? She'd only explain it away somehow. _

_So he said nothing. Until that night, when he couldn't hold it inside anymore. And even then, she'd said "How can you think such things of Mr. Todd? He's been so good to us…"_

"_Bugger bugger bugger bugger BUGGER!" Toby hissed to himself and the rats as he raced through the sewer, running away, away from the barber, away from this memory. He should've told her, right then and there; he was a coward, a bloody sodding coward! Even now he was a coward, running for the police and leaving her alone with the bastard, even though to the very end she'd taken care of him, told him how to get out so the barber wouldn't see his escape…_"See those grates?..."

_He had to have forced her. Even though she never seemed frightened around him, even though she practically worshiped the man, even though she insisted that he'd helped them have a good life. Even though Mrs. Lovett didn't seem the type of woman who'd allow herself to be taken in by a man. He had to have threatened her._

_He had to._

Battery C of the First Rhode Island Light Artillery, Army of the Potomac, was moving towards the Bull Run River and Manassas Junction in support of General Pope's infantry – towards the very battlefield where, one year before, the Rebels had routed the northern forces. Another defeat here, now, would spell certain disaster. Already the graybacks had the Union on the defensive – if the Confederates managed to push into Maryland, the Federal forces would be backed against a proverbial wall, forced to fight a totally defensive war on their own ground.

Toby Ragg was well aware of these stakes as he rode the supply wagons at the back of the line. It had been explained to him and his fellow artillerymen over and over, as though the outcome of the entire war rested squarely upon the shoulders of this small battery. They must hold Virginia, their commanding officers told them – _they_, as though no other regiment existed.

Toby knew, from picking up snatches of the men's conversations, that he had a reputation for keeping to himself – a quiet child, _too_ quiet, not like other boys his age. In truth, he just kept his head down and did his job. There were a few other lads around his age in the battery, namely one young fellow assigned to the primary bugler, a slightly older boy training under the color bearer, and some others who chiefly carried out odd jobs, like Toby himself. These had tried to engage him in their conversation and games at first; but after enough short responses from him they gave up and let him alone. This suited Toby just fine. The men and boys alike typically filled their time with talk of their families back home anyway. Toby had nothing to contribute.

"_See those grates?...They go straight down to the sewers…"_

He heard that voice night after night, its echo staying with him even when he couldn't remember dreaming her face – those words, giving him the way out in case Todd should come after him…Sometimes he wondered what had become of her, what she was doing, where she'd been sent – even whether she'd been caught playing espionage, whether she was even still alive. And then he told himself he didn't care, and pushed the thoughts and recollections from his mind.

On first joining up, young Ragg had been assigned to the quartermaster sergeant. He'd initially assumed, from what little he'd heard, that this would consist completely of carting groceries about and serving at mess call; and indeed, this had been part of his duties…along with mending the men's uniforms, polishing their boots, making sure each man got the right shirt size when new supplies came in, and occasionally being loaned out to the teamsters to feed, water, and groom the horses that pulled the limbers transporting the supply wagons, caissons, and gun carriages. Toby soon found that caring for the animals suited him more than most other tasks he'd been given: it allowed him to stay fairly away from the others and gave him an excuse to avoid interacting with them. The sergeant seemed to notice how Toby took to this duty, for he began placing the lad with the teamsters more and more frequently. It would "keep him out of trouble," he'd been told, because he was a "youngster" and the officers didn't want him "in harm's way." The safest place for him would be with the teamsters, who hung back in combat situations, guarding the supplies and ferrying necessities forward to the cannoneers as required.

So young Ragg hadn't seen much action, though his regiment had been involved in a few engagements since his enlistment. His view of the battlefields was constantly obscured by what the men called the "fog of war" – the smoke and dust of battle that filled the air and frequently created a havoc of confusion between opposing forces. All he could ever see was the gun, several yards ahead, and a flurry of silhouettes bustling around it in an elaborately choreographed drill. Sometimes too he could see the colors – the flag of the regiment that rallied the men – and over the crashing _boom boom boom boom BOOM!_ of the cannons he could hear the bugle, as though coming across a great distance, its notes weaving between the bursts of thunder rending the air, as though carried on a breeze.

Perched atop the limber chests, his lanky frame jolted repeatedly as the wheels rocked over the uneven ground, Toby knew when he was drawing near to the site of combat: the crackle of gunfire already peppered the air; and over the hilly terrain in dawn's growing light he could see the long blue line of Pope's infantry and the clusters of ordinance that signaled their counterpart artillery regiments from other northern states. And further on to the west, straight ahead, and southward to the left, the orderly gray ranks of the enemy. Scattered farmhouses, no doubt abandoned when their occupants learned of the opposing armies' approach, looked sleepy and peaceful – out of place, somehow, in view of what was about to occur.

When they'd moved into position on a rise of land – uncomfortably close, Toby thought, to a Confederate battery he could see to their south – the men of Battery C sprang into action, rolling the guns and caissons forward, moving the horses and supplies to the back of the line. In the midst of the ruckus of these preparations, Toby could hear the Chief of the Piece for his assigned cannon, exhorting the cannoneers under his command:

"The goddamned Rebs have already cut the railway and burned all our equipment," he shouted. "Are we going to let such dastardly tactics go unpunished?"

A resounding _"No sir!"_ went up from the men in chorus, without so much as pausing in their drill.

"Are we going to let this rabble take this fine state of Virginia away from the God-ordained United States?"

"_No sir!"_

"Now that Longstreet's here, we are facing the full power of the Army of Northern Virginia. But you are civilized men! You are Union men! Not southern dogs! Not barbarians!"

Something about the officer's voice stirred Toby, set butterflies loose in the pit of his stomach.

"Some of you," the sergeant went on, "are facing action for the first time. Our cause is just. If you fall, you fall gloriously, for your homes, your families, and your nation! _One _nation! Not two! One nation!"

"_One nation!"_

"One nation!"

"_One nation!"_

By this time Toby's heart was positively pounding. He would have thrown all caution to blazes and rushed forward to take a place beside the cannoneers whether they'd have him or no – but a firm hand clamping down on his shoulder reined him in. It was one of the quartermaster's corporals, a man who'd always been kind to Toby, showed him the ropes when he'd been a raw recruit.

"Sergeant Fredericks sent me to find you, Ragg," he said. "Come on, son. This'll be no place for you in a matter of – "

But his voice was swallowed by a crash of thunder on their left – his hand gripped Toby's shoulder like a talon and froze for only an instant before pulling him back to the wagons with the rest of the teamsters. As they moved away from the guns, Toby saw a dark cloud rising from the land to the south, and once again, even as he watched, the morning peace was shattered by a volley of Confederate artillery, smashing into the Union left flank.

Northern rifles responded, and suddenly the air exploded with the peal of bugles sounding formation calls, the shouts of warriors advancing. The Rhode Islanders worked with practiced precision to ready their cannons. And then Toby heard something that curdled the blood in his veins – an unearthly howl, like the moaning roar of demons swarming out of the vile gullet of Hades itself. The chilling, hair-raising cry that Toby had heard men speak of but never yet witnessed himself; and now he realized that everything they'd said about it had been true. His entire body was covered with gooseflesh.

It was terrifying.

Toby could hear the distant Union infantry trying to counter with their trademark rallying cry _"Hurrah!"_ but the effort seemed feeble and pointless. "They're charging," the corporal remarked, as if Toby needed to be told. The fact that the graybacks were charging was obvious enough from that infernal sound.

The Rebel yell.

***************

Sweeney Todd's heart was beating.

At last.

The First, Fourth, and Fifth Texas regiments had moved to a wooded cover just before dawn had broken, and now a contingent of men in blue was picking its way towards the edge of the trees.

"Skirmishers," Johnson supplied in a whisper. He squinted his eyes and added sagely, "Looks like New York uniforms."

Todd glanced to his left, where MacMullen, his face ashen, his equipment audibly rattling as he quaked in terror, seemed about to be violently ill. Todd knew that Rayburn was on the other side, though he couldn't see him. Johnson, however, seemed as calm as the most grizzled, battle-scarred veterans among them. Directly ahead stood the color bearers, one holding the battle flag of the Confederacy, its red field and blue, starry X soiled and torn from the many battles it had seen; the other presenting the Texans' own banner, riddled with bullet holes.

"Men of the Texas Brigade!"

It was the voice of their lieutenant, a well-liked man by the name of Samuels, coming from the last ranks behind them.

"You have always been first into the fray. You are the right hand of this army. Well you remember only two years ago, when Abraham Lincoln sent armed men against his own citizens in this very state. Since that day we have protested that aggression with our own blood."

He paused, and when he continued his voice was softer but still, somehow, able to be heard in the front lines.

"My own grandfather took up arms against the crown of England in the cause of liberty," he said, his voice full of emotion. "It is his very sword that I carry with me today. Many of your own grandfathers did the same."

"Mine did," said Johnson in an undertone; and on Todd's other side MacMullen breathed "So did mine…"

"We have inherited that legacy," Samuels went on. "I do not need to tell you to fight with honor. You have proven time and time again that you are gentlemen. You are the glory of our great nation. Now – for your land, for your wives and mothers and sisters, for your children and grandchildren – fix bayonets!"

Todd didn't have to be told. His own bayonet had been fixed for hours, and even now was shining like a great wicked tooth at the end of his rifle's barrel. His hands twisted on the gun stock as the noise of his comrades attaching blades to longarms filled his ears.

"Ready!" the lieutenant shouted.

Each soldier lowered his gun to hip level.

The sharp, cold hiss of Samuels' saber leaving its scabbard pierced the air, and he called, _"Advance!"_

As one man the Texans stepped forward through the trees. The New Yorkers were ready for them, already raising their weapons to their shoulders; but without requiring an order the southerners fired first, taking down a good deal of the front ranks. While the Yankees rallied, Todd and his comrades re-loaded, the men immediately behind them coming forward and letting off another round of shot that felled more men in blue. The remaining skirmishers, undaunted, stood their ground and loosed a volley that ripped through the Texans' line.

From the corner of his eye, Todd saw Tom Davis go down.

His rifle loaded and ready, Todd coldly took aim at a Yankee with his gun raised, and sent him to his knees. On his left, MacMullen was still frantically jamming the ramrod down his rifle's barrel, breathing hard, panicking.

"For God's sake, Owen!" Todd heard Rayburn growl. "Pull yourself together!"

Todd withdrew a little packet of gunpowder from the cartridge box on his belt and ripped it open with his teeth, tasting the acrid, gritty stuff as he poured it down the barrel and packed in the bullet, taking time to coolly replace the ramrod, taking no notice of the Yankee shot that buzzed past his left ear like an angry hornet. A hail of Union lead rained past him, and he heard the dreadful sound of men's voices raised in shrieks of agony as their bones were splintered by the impact.

"Texas Brigade!" Samuels called. "Forward!"

Like a moving steel wall the Confederates followed their color bearers. They could not shoot while moving at such a brisk pace, and the enemy took the chance to fire again. Men fell all around Sweeney Todd; but nothing touched him. Not even a graze. He seemed to be in the direct line of fire, too. It made him furious that men in his own front rank took minie balls to the head, causing the back ranks to take their place, while he remained standing.

It soon became clear that the Texans were not about to retreat, and as they closed the distance the New Yorkers slowly, warily began to fall back. When their line wavered, the Texans halted and fired; and the Yankee commanding officer ordered a full retreat.

"Push them out!" Lieutenant Samuels called. "Pursue them!"

"That's right, you bluebelly bastards!" Johnson cried as the regiment broke into a fast jog, close on the enemy's heels. "Run faster!"

But just when it looked as though a complete rout was achieved, the Texans passed the treeline – and saw their quarry running straight into more ranks of New Yorkers, their weapons already aimed and ready to fire.

"_Kneel down!"_ Samuels screamed from the back line – and the men did, throwing themselves to the ground just before the enemy volley split the air not an inch above their heads. Instantly the command was given to fire, and the Texans' reply hit the Yankees square, eliminating the entire front line in one fell blow.

"_Charge!"_

It was a reckless order, and it made Todd's blood run hot. This was what he'd waited for, what he'd come here for. Now was the moment to obliterate his past, his memory, here on this field; and for the first time he could remember, he smiled.

With the battle cry of the South, the Rebel yell, the Texans rose and surged forward, a gray tide like a storm-churned wave, rolling over the stunned New Yorkers, who were still feverishly trying to re-load even as the brigade fell upon them.

The rest of the world seemed to dissolve around Todd. The men at his side disappeared; the clamor of battle subsided beneath the scream that made his own throat raw. All he could see were the wide, terrified eyes of the man he bore down on – shocked, aghast, as though this wasn't supposed to happen, as though _he_ was supposed to live, not like the others –

Todd did not stop or slow as he drove his bayonet into the man's gut, the force of his momentum pushing the Yankee back till they both tumbled to the ground, the dying man writhing and choking.

And suddenly his mind flashed the image of a sketch of Newgate gallows…three hooded figures dangling from the gibbet…what they'd done to her…

He sank the blade to the very hilt, making hot, thick blood gush over his hands – he sliced through the Yankee's belly as he withdrew the weapon, and as soon as it was free he plunged its tip into the man's throat, watching him thrash in his death throes, eyes open and staring long past their ability to see.

Todd rose, shaking in exhilaration, ad looked about him. It was chaos. Men's mouths were open – some shrieking in agony, others roaring in triumph – revolvers were drawn and fired at point-blank range, turning men's faces into red pulp – and all of it was silent. The only thing Todd could hear was a violent ringing in his ears, and his own blood pounding in his veins.

A bullet zipped past his head – a sting at his temple, like that of a wrathful bee –

_Johanna was crying. Violently. Benjamin didn't know what to do for her; he tried to coo at her and distract her with her favorite dolly, but it wasn't working very well. Frustrated, he turned to his wife and snapped, "It's not such a good idea to bring her through the flower stalls with all these damned things flyin' about!"_

_But Lucy only smiled and lifted the baby from the pram. "Ben," she chided good-naturedly. "Language. We can't shield her from everything in life. She'll have to get stung sometimes, you know."_

_He clasped his hands behind his back, his face burning in regret at his outburst. "Not my daughter," he said firmly. "She'll never know a day's sadness if I have anything to say about it."_

_Lucy shot him an amused look as she rubbed the red sting mark on Johanna's little, tender arm. "Hark how your daddy wants to protect you, darling," she said…_

Todd spun about, his rage overtaking him, the old familiar haze of red coming over his vision. A blue-coated soldier was standing several yards away, a pistol aimed at his head.

"_She poisoned herself…arsenic, from the apothecary 'round the corner…and he's got your daughter…"_

The scream was only in Todd's mind, so overpowering that his throat could not contain it, and he merely stumbled forward in silence, removing the bayonet from his rifle as he approached, his would-be killer frozen in terror, mouth agape, staring at Todd's face –

"_Hey…don't I know you, mister?..."_

Before the man could react Todd was on him, his bayonet arcing through the air in a flash of silver and sunlight, his victim staggering back too late…

Todd tore through the Yankees, seizing men by their hair as they tried to escape, one after another, till they all blurred together, till he couldn't see their faces anymore.

"_We could have a life, us two…"_

Again and again the cold steel did its work, its wielder barreling through ranks of blue, ripping through layers of wool, layers of flesh, splashing the golden morning with fountains of scarlet. All the witnesses, all the jurors, Dalton, Turpin, Bamford – they suffered again and again under his hand.

"_Eleanor Lovett…severely beaten and violated…resulting in her death…"_

Three figures on the gallows, hanging beyond his reach – got off scot-free as far as he was concerned; should have suffered, should have been flayed alive, by God –

"…_severely beaten…violated…"_

_His head was ringing, as though the sharp yellow haze over his vision was making the sound…and he was sick still, so very sick, more than he'd ever been in his life, more than he'd ever think possible – because the sickness went down to his soul, ate through his mind like worms eating through a casket lid. The voice at his side managed to pierce through it all, though._

"_Barker…stay with me, lad…"_

""_What – who – "_

"_It's O'Bannon, lad. You'll be all right, I'm takin' you to the infirmary."_

_O'Bannon…Rory O'Bannon…one of the despised trusties, those the other inmates called the warden's lapdogs. But Barker couldn't have such a low opinion of the man, not now: here he was, his strong, wiry arm looped under Barker's own arms, practically supporting all his weight; and the barber was oddly grateful, even as something in him recoiled at the man's touch, wanted to shove him away, to be allowed to die in the dust. _God…why aren't I dead?...Please let me die…don't make me stay alive to remember that…

_He felt his knees begin to give as another wave of nausea rolled through him._

_"Barker," O'Bannon groaned as he tightened his grip on his charge, snugged Barker's arm more firmly around his shoulders. "Come on. Tell me about that wife o' yours. See her face in your mind, make it the only thing you _can _see. Tell me what she looks like."_

_Lucy…oh, his love, his treasure, his angel, his anchor, his life…_

"_So beautiful," he breathed._

"_Why? What makes her so beautiful? Damn you, ya bleedin' milksop, stay with me!"_

"_Yellow…yellow hair…" Like the sun, or the heart of a daffodil…not like this odious film covering everything he saw…_

_How could he look her in the eye again, after this? He was no man. He was unworthy of her, and that killed him inside – when he went back to her he wanted to be worthy of her, and of his little girl, to be a real husband and a good father…_

_O'Bannon's arm finally gave out as Barker sank helplessly to his knees, retching violently though nothing was left, as though this action would purge him of the taint –_

Todd roared as he plunged the blade into the man again and again, cutting him to ribbons, seeing only one face, hovering above him, leering…_"Pretty man…pretty boy Barker"_ –

Pain seared through his side – an enemy bayonet was stuck through his own ribs now. With a cry like a wild beast he whirled – in one motion splitting the man's throat and shoving the barrel of his sidearm into his chest, pulling the trigger, exploding his enemy's heart in a burst of blood and bone.

"_Todd!"_

He heard his own name as though from a very great distance, all sound still muffled by the pulse of his blood and memories coursing through his fevered brain. He felt himself falling, and he hit the ground, made soft with gore, his side erupting in a spasm of pain that radiated through his whole body. Someone was leaning over him, calling his name in a panic, lightly tapping his cheek.

"_Stay with me, Barker…"_

"_Mr. Todd…Mr. T, can you hear me?...You've had another nightmare, love…"_

"Todd! Hold on! MacMullen, get over here and help!"

Todd knew this voice.

"Johnson…"

"Oh God," the lad sputtered, sounding on the verge of tears. "Todd, hang on…"

He felt strong hands under his arms – the same hands that had pulled him from three feet of water when the blockade runner was hit – and smaller hands gripping his ankles…

"No," he murmured, his words slurred. "Leave me. Let me die. For God's sake…"

But he was being borne away…

With a sudden effort he thrashed free of them, and they had no choice but to support him on his feet. They stood gaping at him, and MacMullen breathed "Dear God…"

Todd knew that his companion was staring at him so because he was drenched in blood, his hair matted with it, his uniform soaked through. He still gripped his bayonet in his right hand, and the Le Mat revolver in his left.

White streaks ran through the dirt and soot on Johnson's face.

"Why did you…why did you save me?" Todd snarled, ready to kill them for the favor, his jaw clenched. They only knit their brows in confusion; and MacMullen said, "You're in no condition to fight now. You need to get that looked after," glancing to the rip in Todd's woolen uniform. "We'll help you get back to the woods, and then – "

Todd rounded on the man, his breath seething through his teeth as he said, "If you're so concerned about it, why don't you stitch it up?"

MacMullen's jaw dropped. "Wha – _now_?!"

"You've got needle and thread in your haversack, don't you?"

"Well" – MacMullen gulped – "yeah, sure; but…"

Growing increasingly angry and impatient, Todd grumbled inarticulately as he removed his jacket, grunting and wincing against the fresh assault of pain this motion caused, and took off his shirt, examining the cut on his left side. Johnson hissed, but said nothing.

"It's not deep," Todd offered, more to himself than to the two men with him; and he wrapped his shirt around his wounded torso, tying it tight. This done, he replaced his jacket – his movements stiff and careful – and asked, "What happened in the charge?"

MacMullen gulped, and Johnson cast the big Georgian a cautious look that seemed to suggest a fear that Todd had lost his mind. "We routed 'em," MacMullen replied. "Thanks to you, a lot of it. I don't know how many Yanks you took down, but…damn, Todd, I never seen anything like you on the field o' battle. It was like…like you changed, like you wasn't even yourself. Didn't even look like you. Like you was…possessed or somethin'. It was downright terrifyin' to watch. Johnson's the bravest man in the regiment for even darin' to get near you, far as I figure it."

Todd ignored all this. "What's our next maneuver?"

"With the New Yorkers on the run, the way's clear to a Rhode Island light artillery battery just to the south. General Hood wants us to take it, maybe see if we can capture a few cannon."

Todd nodded tersely. "I'll need to find my rifle, then."

Johnson stepped forward, impulsively grasping Todd's arm, and pleading "Todd, for God's sake, please stay behind with the rest of the casualties. You'll have other chances. Please – "

And then he broke off abruptly, blinking – released Todd's arm as though slapped, and stepped back, his eyes on the ground. As though his gesture had been, somehow, terribly inappropriate, or dangerous.

Todd put this strange behavior down to the possibility that Johnson had feared him more than the young soldier had let on. He slipped his bayonet into its sheath on his belt and replaced the Le Mat in its hard leather holster. "I'll need to find a rifle," he repeated. And he stalked off, grimacing with every step, the rustle of tall grass behind him telling him that MacMullen and Johnson were close behind. And he got the feeling, in that moment, that they would always be close behind – close at his side, always there to lift him out of his own blood and carry him to safety. It confused him – he didn't understand it, and he despised them for it.

Then, suddenly, he stopped. Something was missing – or rather, some_one_.

"Where's Rayburn?" he asked.

"Went ahead with the regiment," said Johnson.

Todd swallowed and offered a curt jerk of his head, not knowing why this news would make him feel relieved. He picked up a rifle from a Yankee corpse – Johnson said it was a Springfield, one of the best firearms to be had – and after filling his cartridge box from the unused equipment of the dead littering the ground, he allowed his two comrades to lead him back to his regiment, his feet slipping and sliding, brogans squelching in the mud formed by men's blood seeping like water into the blameless earth.

* * *

**A/N:**Uh, yeah, so...here I am again :/ This chapter was unreal. I've never had such a difficult time with a chapter before. Thanks to Pamena and Phantomfr33k24601 for commiserating :) And thanks to everyone who hasn't forgotten about this story. **Please review** and thanks for reading! Oh - and Bloody Pumpkinhead has made an AWESOME freehand drawing for this story. The link is on my profile so please take a look and let her know how great it is :D


	9. Baptized in Blood

**Disclaimers: **See chapter 1.

**A/N:** Hello fine readers :) See, I didn't keep you waiting so long this time. Sorry again for the long wait on the last chapter...It really was terribly difficult and I had to re-write the whole thing at one point...Anyway - this chapter picks up where ch 8 left off, finishing up the battle. Nellie only appears in the flashback; but there will be plenty of her in the next installment :)

THANK YOU to everyone who's keeping up with this story, especially reviewers and subscribers.

I also want to say - the regiments in this story really existed; but I've invented the soldiers and officers (except the generals), and changed some events around to fit the story. For example, I have no idea whether the 1st Rhode Island was really involved in the particular event described in this chapter, whereas they were indeed at this battle and something like this event did happen to a Union artillery unit. Stuff like that. I just want to make my approach clear before some history expert comes along and flames me ;)

Enjoy...

* * *

**9**

**Baptized in Blood.**

The teamsters of Battery C were more than content to be far removed from the action. "Better than getting my legs blown out from under me," one private remarked; and the others laughed and commended themselves on how clever they were to get such a plum assignment. No one could say they didn't serve with honor, they were fond of boasting; yet at the same time they would get home in a few months to eat their Christmas dinner under their own power, without their wives having to feed them because they'd lost both arms. Toby Ragg, however, was less than pleased with the situation. He was, quite simply, bored out of his skull. This was why he crept forward while the rest of the men were occupied smoking or playing draughts, and the officers weren't looking directly his way.

Keeping close to the wagons, using them for cover from patrolling eyes, he moved in a crouch, making his way forward to the guns. Something was up – even he, still somewhat green, could tell that by the way the shots were increasing in frequency, the bugle calls becoming sharper, more urgent in their tone. The lingering smoke hung thick around the guns, obscuring much; but Toby knew he was drawing near the caissons when he heard the sound of ammunition being unloaded, the corporals rushing about with disciplined haste, shouting to one another as they passed the projectiles forward. Toby knew better than to get too close to them – he might be spotted. He directed his eyes to his unit's gun a few yards ahead, and saw the Chief of the Piece shouting orders, though the wind stirred up by the cannon blasts tended to carry his voice away. To the right of the gun were the color bearers, Captain Phillips and his aide, mounted on horseback, the war-torn regimental flag rippling beside the equally tattered Union stars and stripes above their heads. Even at this distance, Toby could _feel_ the blasts of the entire battery's guns, seven of them ranged to the right of his unit, pounding in his chest, vibrating in his very bones. The pungent aroma of gunpowder filled his nostrils, his ears ringing with the crisp reports of thousands of rifles, the clamor of men's voices, the din of bugle calls clashing with one another as they directed their separate regiments.

He loved it.

His heart drummed when he heard the snap of rifle fire drawing closer to his battery's location, off to the left. Another Rebel yell went up, dreadful and thrilling; and the wind must have been just right at that moment because Toby heard the Chief shout out, "Hold your fire! _Hold your fire!_"

The corporals at the gun froze where they stood.

Through the veil of smoke Toby saw the reason for the Chief's command to cease fire. Dark shapes were moving at speed past the cannon's line of fire, hurtling eastwards, back towards the river. If they were Rebels, the battery would have kept on firing. That they'd stopped could only mean –

"Those are Union men, sir!" the Chief cried, his voice taking on a frantic quality Toby had never heard from the tough veteran before. "God almighty, they look like the very devil's on their heels!"

"It's the Fifth New York," Captain Phillips replied in a resigned voice. "God damn it all, they were supposed to cover our flank!"

"Orders, Captain?"

"Hold this position!"

"Yes sir!" Turning back to the cannoneers, the Chief commanded "Ready the canister!"

Instantly the gun crew sprang into action once more, unloading the canister shot from the limber chests, their practiced movements more rapid now but still controlled. Toby sucked in a breath – things must be going bad. He'd never seen canister shot used, but he'd learned in his all-too-brief training that it was only employed at close range, and had a terrible effect.

He discovered just how bad things were getting when, after an agonizing eternity, the cannoneers, poised in their positions around the gun, still as the figures of a sculpture, waiting for the Chief's voice – the report of many rifles sounded too close, and Toby saw the color bearer go down.

He didn't merely topple from his horse – he was blown off of it in a spray of red, limbs splayed as though taking flight, the horse shying and neighing but standing its ground. The soldier fell hard to the earth and did not rise, and the regimental banner fell after him, the colored cloth fluttering over his face like a shroud.

Something about seeing those colors – beaten and faded as they were – lying ignobly in the dust, went through Toby like a firebrand. It was a terrible sight, to his mind – that proud flag, almost a soldier in its own right, that had seen so many battles, had outlasted countless human lives, so brave, and now so still –

And without thinking any further about it, Toby simply reacted: he sprang from his hiding place and bolted forward, sprinted to the fallen flag, seized it up, and vaulted onto the dead man's horse.

He'd done it all in a spurt of frenzied, impulsive energy. Now he felt disoriented and stared about wildly, trying to get his bearings. Was he even with his own regiment anymore?...He couldn't see a bloody thing; the fog of war obscured the fields before him, though he heard clear enough the noise of the advancing Confederates, their battle cries and rifle volleys sounding, it seemed, only a few yards away. Then, looking to his right, he caught sight of the captain, gazing at Toby with astonished eyes, jaw slack with disbelief. Toby gulped – he hadn't thought of the carelessness of his action. Only now did he realize that he'd left his post, disobeyed direct orders, and taken over a position he hadn't been assigned. Only the captain determined who held the colors at his side.

"I'm sorry, sir!" Toby gushed, breathless. He was going to catch it now – at the very least, they'd throw him out of the regiment…Actually, he didn't know _what_ the army did to soldiers who'd shown such disregard for rules and regulations – judging by the captain's stern expression, Toby didn't _want_ to know…

"Shut your mouth, boy!" Phillips barked.

Toby's cheeks grew hot. "I – Sir, I'm sorry!" he blurted. "I just saw the banner fall and it made me angry like, and I weren't thinkin', I just – "

"Why are you nattering away at me?!" demanded the captain. "You keep your eyes on the enemy! Hold that flag and hold it like your very life depends on it! Do not let it touch the ground again! It falls only when you fall, am I clear, Private?!"

Unable to quite believe what he was hearing, Toby could only answer with a mute nod.

"Do not allow the enemy to capture it. You get shot before you allow that. And if it does get captured and you're still standing, I will shoot you myself! Understood?"

"Yes sir!"

"_Hold this position!"_ the Chief of the Piece ordered at the very top of his lungs – and suddenly Toby realized he could no longer hear the bugle.

From his high vantage point on the horse's back, through the gritty, swirling murk of gunsmoke and ash, Toby saw the enemy swarming forward, blending so well with the gray screen of battle-haze that they seemed to be forming from the smoke itself – and they were advancing, pressing ever onward, their front ranks eating up the ground, relentlessly closing distance with the cannon.

The men of Battery C were now well within range of enemy rifles – the awful silence of the bugler proved that – and Toby's unit was on the left end of the line, the closest and most vulnerable target.

They were going to be overrun.

"_Fire!"_ screamed the Chief; and one of the corporals yanked hard on the gun's lanyard and the weapon fired off the shot, kicking back on its carriage even as the crew flew to re-load. In the midst of the Confederate ranks, the canister projectile burst asunder in a spray of iron pellets – nails – bits of broken knife blades, fork tines, sharp small pieces of unidentifiable scrap metal – scattering through the air at a terrible, unstoppable speed, shredding men's faces, embedding deep in their flesh, reducing human forms to redly glistening lumps of mincemeat…

It wasn't as though Toby hadn't witnessed real horror before. The bake house, the knowledge of what had taken place there, had inured him to grisly sights – or so he'd thought. But the meat and bones he'd seen there – shocking as it all was, and as much as he still endured the echoes of that night in dark and fearful dreams – were the remains of men already dead. Now, on this field, he was watching men _as _they died, and died brutally. Toby had never heard a man scream before – oh, Pirelli had thrown some violent tantrums; but that was anger, and Toby had already known plenty of that from the workhouse. This…this was the sound of men's souls being ripped too soon from their bodies, of pain beyond imagining; and Toby thought no sound could possibly be uglier, or more awesomely horrible.

Acrid bile rose in his throat.

But to his amazement, even this hailstorm of death proved no deterrent. Those who hadn't been felled by the blast boldly carried on, vaulting over their dead or wounded comrades, continuing to swell towards the gun. And that, Toby thought, was quite the most disturbing sight of all.

"_Fire!"_ the Chief shrieked again; and more canister was loosed, ripping into the gray ranks; and still the Rebels came on. The order to fire was given again immediately – but the men were only beginning to make ready…

"Sir!" cried the Chief, shooting the captain a look of pure, pleading terror.

"You will hold this position!" Phillips replied. "They cannot be allowed to drive us off!"

"They're too close! _They're going to take the gun!"_ one of the corporals yelled.

Toby gripped the staff in his hand till his muscles were cramped to the shoulder – the bloody flag was catching the wind, making the long pole strain against his hold…He'd never imagined such a simple thing would be so hard, watching the color bearer sit so tall and hold the banner so straight through all those engagements…._Don't let it fall…don't let it fall…no matter what happens…_

To Toby's right, Captain Phillips cursed under his breath.

And then hell itself was opened.

The cannoneers worked like men on fire, sweat pouring out from under their kepi caps as they loaded the canister and packed it down the barrel with the ramrod. A sudden breeze parted the smoke like a curtain, and the scene was revealed to Toby's incredulous eyes: the Rebels not even ten feet off, charging, bayonets lowered, shrieking their unearthly war cry. Toby watched in helpless horror, his heart in his throat, as in their panic the corporals fired the gun before the rammer was withdrawn, sending it flying into the southerners' ranks like a great deadly bolt. This succeeded in parting the enemy's formation – the rod knocking down several men until it was stopped by smashing into a soldier's face and embedding itself straight through his skull, taking him clean off his feet and driving him back several yards – but the graybacks recovered immediately and closed ranks. They were so close now that Toby could see the unique identifying marks of their uniforms; and by his side he heard the captain mutter "Holy God…it's the Texas Brigade…."

Just as he pronounced these words the enemy rushed the cannon in a final, desperate burst of speed, and the corporals abandoned their effort of trying to load the canister, instead drawing their sidearms and knives in anticipation of a melee. If they could not defend the gun, the day would be lost.

_"Stand your ground!"_ ordered the Chief, his voice nearly hysterical, like that of a madman; and his soldiers, some nearly in tears from fear, unaccustomed to close-quarters fighting, held their weapons at the end of quaking limbs.

And then, as the Rebels engulfed the cannon, Toby's heart stopped beating altogether.

Leading the onslaught, running straight into the mouth of the gun like a one-man shock troop, was a slender, dark-haired soldier, his rifle slung across his back, wielding a bayonet in his right hand and a revolver in his left. The blade struck with dreadful precision, finding purchase with the first corporal in its path, opening the man's throat with one awful swipe. The Rebel soldier himself had obviously done his fair share – or more – of killing already that day, because he was saturated so thoroughly with blood that his uniform jacket might as well have been dyed red.

There was something terribly familiar about this battle-crazed warrior whose howling screams sounded over even the wildest yells of his comrades. Toby couldn't figure exactly what it was; but there was something in the man's spirit, the dread energy surrounding him – which Toby could sense even at this distance – he couldn't help but feel that he was _remembering_ something in watching this soldier, who seemed to be not only carrying out orders but actually relishing his work.

And then, in a glimpse so fleeting that he would've missed it had he blinked his eyes, Toby thought he just caught a flash of white breaking through the darkness of the soldier's blood-drenched hair.

No.

_No._

It couldn't be…not possibly!...

Toby had never known what had become of Sweeney Todd – didn't want to, really. He made every effort not to even think the man's name. He only knew that the authorities hadn't been able to find the brute; and Mrs. Lovett had only told him that that barber had simply departed Fleet Street for parts unknown. Claimed she didn't know where he was. Toby supposed he believed her – after all, if she did know her lover's whereabouts she'd follow him in less than a blink, for all her vague claims that he'd done something horrible to her on that final night – but Todd _here_?...in America?...in a war that had nothing to do with him?...

How? _Why?..._

Toby was just about to spur his mount towards the fray to determine the truth – but the smoke of combat closed around the scene again, cutting off his vision; and in the same moment Captain Phillips cried _"Retreat! Retreat!"_

"Sir, the wagons!" Toby cried, his training to protect the battery's supplies instantly kicking in.

"Leave them! Get back to the river _now!_"

And the First Rhode Island, accompanied by the entirety of Pope's Union forces, their left flank broken, began falling back to the east, leaving Virginia to the Confederates.

Only when they were in full rout did Toby, practically wrapping his whole body around that unruly flag staff as it swayed this way and that in the wind of his animal's gallop, have a chance to realize that he'd never ridden a horse before in his life.

*************

_Nothing could bring them back – no – all the lives he took could never restore his Lucy's life; all the blood he spilled – even Turpin's, even Bamford's – could never flow into her, make her live again. In his dreams he would drain the red fluid from one man after another – dozens, hundreds, thousands it seemed – drain it into a great barrel, which he'd drag to Lucy's grave (it was clear enough in his nightmares, though he'd never seen it in his waking life, didn't want to see it, only a pauper's pit) and topple over, pouring it onto the earth till the gore became a crimson river, certain it would bring her back if only he could bring enough; increasingly frantic when she didn't rise no matter how much he flooded her resting place… _

_He was cold, so very cold, after he slammed his foot on the pedal…the thrill wore off so quickly now; he needed to feed it, to keep it alive or there would be nothing left to drive him on…He raced downstairs to her, to drown himself in her presence, in the warmth of her arms, in the safe, quiet dark –_

_He found her stretched out on the settee, reading, looking like a painting; and the sight stopped him in mid-step. Only once had he ever tried to see his Lucy's face when he looked at his lover, only once had he ever tried to summon his wife's name, hear her voice, in his mind – the second time he and Lovett had been together, he'd thought such an effort would ease his grief, recover his loss if even for a moment, close the gaping chasm in his soul. But it hadn't worked – he was constantly reminded by the name _Sweeney Todd_ sounding in his ears that he could never regain that past, couldn't even pretend to; and in the end he'd been disgusted with himself. It was a wretched, sordid betrayal of his wife's memory, this attempt to substitute her with another, bringing her image into this indulgence of his base desires. From then on he'd focused his attention solely on the solid reality of the woman in his arms, honoring Lucy only when he was alone, by gazing on her picture and trying to remember – keeping her separate from his relations with the baker, preserving his wife's memory pure and unsullied in a shrine within his mind. The result was that Lovett was allowed to grow on him – _in _him – until he didn't even try – or want – to deny that he'd become openly fond of her. _

_Perhaps too fond for his own liking. _

_This had become clear to him only a few Sundays ago. He always refused outright to go with her to St. Dunstan's despite her almost seductive cajoling, lest he miss the beadle or the judge; but on this particular Sunday she'd successfully prevailed on him to accompany her and the boy to the country – hired a carriage and the whole bit, too – and when they finally arrived at their destination (after a punishing two-hour ride in the stifling carriage) she'd gasped loudly on spotting a massive willow tree, its branches drooping right down to the ground below, trailing along the grass in the breeze. Her reaction had told the barber he was going to be in for trouble; but before he could take action she'd grabbed his hand, hiked her skirts, and took off running, pulling him along, forcing him to run with her till they reached the tree and burst through its leaves. Unaccustomed to such exertion, he gulped air and angrily panted "Bloody – hell – woman!" but she only laughed – like he'd never heard anyone laugh before, bubbling up from her very spirit it seemed, wild and free – and she'd breathed "Oh _look_, love! There's no one else here, we've got it all to ourselves!" and took both his hands and drew him into the cool shade, and they'd lounged under the dark green canopy while young Ragg ran off somewhere… and she'd gone on and on about how, one day, one of these trips would be to the seaside – not looking at the barber but gazing off, as though she could plainly _see_ an entire life playing itself out among the rippling leaves. Her voice wove in and out of his own imaginings, his plans for Turpin and Bamford and how he was going to get to them and God _damn _the devils, when were they going to come?! and every move he would use to deprive them of their poor excuses for existence…But Lovett's voice flowed through it all, like the current of a brook winding among stones, and he knew she was there, with him – even though she wasn't speaking of the work they shared, he knew she was with him, in every way. _

_When he suddenly realized she'd gone quiet, he turned to look at her. She was leaning back against the willow's trunk, her eyes closed, a hint of a smile softening her lips. The sun was dappling through the leaves, making golden flickering light play across her face, mesmerizing him with the way its patterns threw certain of her features into shadow, brought others into soft relief…A stray lock of hair fell across her cheek, and without thinking he reached out and brushed it back, tucking it gently behind her ear. _

_Then he froze – even his breathing stopped – because he realized that his fingertips had barely made contact with her skin. He hadn't known it was possible for him to touch anything – certainly not any_one_ – in such a manner. Almost tenderly._

_It scared the hell out of him._

_Of course he was fond of her – of course he was – but this…This was weakness. Contemptible, dangerous weakness. He suddenly felt exposed in a way he hadn't experienced since those first few weeks in the colony, and knowing what that degree of vulnerability had caused then…He wrenched himself away from her, got up, and stalked out from the tree's shelter, blinking against the bright sunlight, determined to find the boy so they could get the hell out of here. _

_He would be careful to guard against such lapses in future. _

_But such outings became more and more frequent – nearly every Sunday – and he always grumbled about them, but he always went. He found that he was…lonesome when she wasn't about the place; and he didn't like that feeling. He began to curse market day, when he would find himself listening for the noise of the door that signaled her return. Even when she wasn't in the same room, he'd know she was near by the sounds of her activity downstairs. Sometimes he'd even hear her humming as she worked, or muttering to herself – he'd teased her about that once, "Bad sign o' losin' your brain, pet," he'd said wryly – and she'd laughed and told him she'd been talking to her bloody self for near on a dozen years since her Albert had passed, and wasn't likely to break such a long habit now. _

_He didn't tell her he was glad of that, because he…missed her, when he didn't hear those little indications of her presence. She herself, he supposed, had become something of a habit of his own. _

_And so things went on, until, when he stepped into the parlor on this night, all he saw – all he _wanted_ to see – was Lovett's face. All he wanted was to take her in. _

_She glanced up when he entered the room, her smile giving way to a frown of concern when she saw his face._

"_What's wrong, love?"_

_He shook his head. "Just…stay there, don't move. I want to look at you…"_

_She kept narrowed, wary eyes on him for another moment, but said nothing else. She only took up her book again, and he settled himself on the other end of the settee, by her feet, and stared at her for hours. _

_Once she broke their silence to playfully ask him, "Lookin' all you're gonna do, dear?"_

"_Yes," he whispered; and she grew serious and no more words passed between them for the rest of the evening. _

_…A horrible dream that night, a nightmare that would stay with him for days…He woke shaking, covered in freezing sweat, and she was stroking his back and his hair to soothe him, and he wouldn't tell her when she asked him because the dream had been about _her_ – she'd been taken from him; he'd gone down to the shop and couldn't find her…he looked everywhere, going from room to empty room, his panic rising with each door he threw open, descending to the bake house and finding only a tenebrous, silent cavity, the eternally blazing oven cold and dark…calling her name, his voice echoing off the unforgiving stone; but she was lost to him, she was gone…gone…_

_And nothing, not all the blood he spilled, not all the life he took, could bring her back…_

_Nellie –_

With a grunt of pain Sweeney Todd was jolted from unconsciousness.

His eyes opened onto a softly flickering amber glow, as of lamps lighted in the dark of night; but before he could take in his surroundings and understand where he was, the burning pinch in his left side commanded his attention. Johnson was there, kneeling by the cot where Todd lay flat on his back, the boy's face screwed up in a very icon of concentration, his fingers skillfully, carefully – almost tenderly – working needle and thread through the bayonet gash in Todd's flesh.

"Sorry," Johnson muttered. "Keep still…"

Todd had no intention of keeping still. He struggled into a sitting position – and instantly his vision swam; his head was groggy as though he'd been drinking like a lord, and a wave of nausea forced him back down to the cot.

"What the hell happened?..."

Johnson's brow furrowed. "You mean you don't remember?"

Todd thought hard. His last memory was of seeing the dire effect of the canister shot and rushing the cannon in the hope of getting a blast of the stuff himself. After that, all was darkness.

He shook his head.

Johnson's hands paused just a fraction, then continued their task as he spoke. "You went crazy again. Run right into that gun like you didn't care what it did to you. But the men, they took courage from what you did and fell right in behind you. We took the gun and busted through the flank, rest of the army way behind us. Jackson hit his end at the same time and we run 'em all back across Bull Run."

Todd swallowed. "I take all that to mean we won the day."

"We sure did!"

Another sharp sting – Todd growled and clenched his teeth, breathing fast through his nose; and Johnson stopped stitching to grab an open bottle from a rickety table by the head of the cot. "Here," he said, pressing the drink to Todd's lips; and when the burning liquor hit his tongue Todd could tell it was bourbon. After he swallowed it down, Johnson unexpectedly poured the stuff directly onto the wound he was working to close – the resulting pain eliciting a strangled cry from the former barber, causing tears to prickle behind his eyes. He wondered vaguely what the pain would be without the alcohol.

"Sorry," Johnson mumbled as he replaced the bottle and resumed stitching. "I know it stings somethin' awful, but this is the best thing to keep it from festerin'."

"Where the hell am I?" Todd grunted. "And why're you stitchin' me up and not the surgeon?"

Johnson barely glanced up as he replied. "Soon as the Yanks got across the river you blacked out. We thought you was dead. Rayburn slung you over his shoulders and brought you to the field hospital but you came to and refused treatment."

Todd blinked. He didn't recall this at all. "Did I?..."

"Yep. An' then you passed out again; but everyone was still so damned scared o' you by then that the doc only got close enough to shoot you up with morphine before leavin' to take care o' the rest o' the wounded. Lieutenant Samuels cursed your stubbornness and told us to bring you to his own tent. Pretty strong language comin' outta his mouth, too. And everyone agreed I oughta do the job 'cause I can sew pretty decent."

Todd was surprised by the pride in Johnson's voice as he shared this last bit of information. "Shouldn't think a lad your age'd know how to sew," he remarked absently.

"Oh, I got real good at it when me an' my brother joined up. Had to learn how to mend our own uniforms and all, you know."

Silence fell between the two soldiers then and lasted for some while, Todd enduring the seemingly endless stick of the needle and pull of the thread, listening to the riot of sound beyond the tent's canvas walls – fiddles and harmonicas, voices raised in raucous celebration mingling with cries of agony from the field hospital further off – until at length, Johnson spoke again.

"Thought you said you didn't have a girl back home," he said quietly – almost timidly.

"I don't," Todd answered gruffly, hoping his tone would put an end to further inquiry.

"Who's Nellie, then?"

All the breath pushed from Todd's lungs as though he'd been shot in the chest – his head snapped to face Johnson, eyes blazing through the boy as he whispered, so low he was nearly mouthing the words, "What the bloody hell did you just say?"

"Nellie," Johnson repeated blandly, green eyes intense on his work, obviously unfazed by Todd's reaction. "You said that name twice while you were out."

Todd turned away, staring hard at the top of the tent, bringing the back of one hand to his forehead, livid with fury, barely able to speak. "What else did I say?" he managed.

"Nothin'. Just 'Nellie'."

"Nothing," repeated Todd, an acid smile creasing his face. "No other names."

"Nope. Only that one, Nellie. Twice."

_Just stop, Johnson, stop saying her goddamned name…_

"So who is sh – "

"She's dead."

A sick, dull ache gnawed the pit of his stomach at the feel of the words in his mouth. It was the first time he'd spoken them aloud, and he hated what they did to him inside.

Johnson drew his hands away from Todd's wound, and he blinked rapidly. "I'm sorry," he muttered, reaching for a pair of scissors on the nearby table.

"Don't be," Todd hissed, clenching the fist that rested on his brow, digging the nails into his palms, trying to contain his ire.

"Well," the boy went on, apparently oblivious to Todd's steadily building rage as he calmly snipped the excess thread from his handiwork, "who _was_ she, then?"

"Let it go, lad."

"I'm only askin' – "

Like a striking viper Todd's hand shot out and caught hold of Johnson's shoulder like a talon, making the younger man jump back with a gasp, his eyes suddenly wide and bright, like the eyes of a startled deer. "Don't…ask…ever again," Todd snarled. "Don't speak of it. Don't even _think_ that name in my presence."

He was remembering now – he'd seen the canister shot blast his comrades to pieces and hope had surged through him, and he'd run, just as Johnson said – he'd aimed straight towards the barrel of that cannon and ran for it as though it promised his salvation; and in that instant when he confronted his end a woman's face had flashed through his mind, and he wanted so badly to die so he could be where she was…He'd thrown himself into the fight with a vengeance, practically begging the blue-clad cannoneers to put a stop to these thoughts that he couldn't control…he remembered blood and smoke and the glint of steel and the backs of men as they ran from him, before he finally fell to his knees in exhaustion, roaring curses to the sky in wrath that he still breathed – and then darkness as consciousness slipped away.

Knowing that his last thoughts in this world would have been of Nellie Lovett – knowing that hers was the face he'd seen, the name he'd called out in his wounded state, hers was the help he'd asked for – was…discomfiting. Confusing. Infuriating. Why in God's name couldn't he make his thoughts and desires and needs take the shape he so desperately _wanted_?...

But his litany of self-abasement was cut short when he suddenly and violently shivered from cold. Looking down at himself, he realized why. With a start he let Johnson go and turned away, facing the tent's wall, and rasped "Where the bloody hell is my shirt?"

He heard movement behind him, and a moment later a clean garment was slowly, gently laid beside him on the cot. "You tied it around yourself to stop the bleedin', remember?" Johnson said. "This is one o' the lieutenant's."

Todd snatched up the shirt furiously and covered himself with it, buttoning it fast nearly to the throat, feeling his young companion's eyes on him as he did so.

"Told me you never seen action before, too," Johnson said quietly. "Coulda' fooled the hell outta me, all those marks all over y – "

"It's none o' your bloody concern."

He heard Johnson draw a deep breath, and then the lad's voice, barely more than a whisper: "One o' these days you're gonna find out you ain't all by yourself here. You got – brothers here. You got…men who care what happens to you, just 'cause you fight alongside 'em. You're gonna learn that some of us stopped fighting for the damned fool 'cause' a long time ago, and now…" His voice was uncharacteristically soft as he finished: "Now some of us fight for the man at our side."

But just as Todd spun round to inform the damned boy that he didn't need or want a bleeding brother, there was a quick movement at the entrance of the tent, and Todd's attention was drawn there instead.

"How's the patient?" Lieutenant Samuels asked with a grin, as Johnson snapped to attention.

"Got him stitched up, sir," replied Johnson, his voice oddly strained. "He'll be all right now."

"Good job, son. As you were."

"Actually sir, I'm done here." There was a hint of bitterness in the young soldier's clipped tone.

"Good, good. Go on and join the festivities, then. Hell if you haven't earned it today."

"Yes sir; thank you, sir."

The boy was gone practically before the last word was out of his mouth.

Samuels stood aside to let him pass, then approached Todd and seated himself in a camp chair, facing the cot. At first he only regarded the man with a wordless smile, almost studying him as he removed a cigar from his breast pocket. He offered the smoke to Todd, who refused with a shake of his head. The lieutenant then set the thick roll of tobacco between his own teeth and proceeded to light it, filling the tent with its heady odor.

"I'm damned if I ever seen your like, Private Todd," Samuels began, his soft Texas drawl the dialect of a southern gentleman, sounding more educated than Johnson's rural twang. "I've been in this war since it started, and I never saw a man get stuck like that – " he nodded towards the stitches between Todd's ribs – "and keep on fighting like you did today. Word of your gallantry has already reached the ears of General Longstreet himself."

Private Todd said nothing.

"If we had more men like you…we could win this war in two months."

He stopped, shifted his eyes away from Todd for the first time, and began lightly scratching his jaw. His next words were spoken quietly, thoughtfully. "I've a mind to recommend you for a field commission, Private. If I could I'd even ask for a bypass of corporal rank and have you promoted directly to sergeant."

Todd swallowed. He didn't want to be an officer. He wasn't in the army to create a career, to gain glory, to carry a saber and wear a handsome uniform. "I'd refuse," he said.

Samuels looked back to him at that, his eyes narrowed to the point of squinting. "What?"

Todd cleared his throat softly, and amended his response. "With…respect, sir, I would have to refuse…such an honor."

A short puff of air escaped the lieutenant's lips, half gasp, half incredulous laugh. He leaned forward, one elbow on his knee, and stared Todd directly and unwaveringly in the eye as he said, "You could make a name for yourself here, son."

"I didn't come here to make a name for myself…sir."

"Well I'm sorry, but when a man takes a cannon near single-handed it's bound to make him a bit of a celebrity. Don't think the journalists won't grab this up, spread it all over the front page of every newspaper in the South. You're a goddamn hero, and you weren't even born in this country. It shoes how even a foreigner can believe in the cause enough to give his life for it, and can you imagine what that would do for morale? At home _and_ in the field."

Todd was bristling now, feeling himself steadily backed into a corner; but if he wanted to stay in the regiment he needed to stay calm. "I won't be the spokesman for your cause. It ain't my war."

"Ah! but there's where you're wrong, Private. 'Cause you fight like it _is_ your war, your own private war; like you'd shoot Abe Lincoln in the eye as soon as look him in it."

Samuels sat back then, drew a long puff on his cigar, removed it from his lips, and studied it thoughtfully. "Only question is, can you contain your frenzy enough to lead other men? Keep your head in the heat of a melee?"

Todd stifled a sigh of relief. There was a way out. "I'm afraid strategy and tactics aren't my strengths, Lieutenant."

"Well," Samuels said, rising, his tone final, as though consciously bringing the meeting to a close. "A man certainly has the right to think about such an offer, and that's all I ask you to do. We shall see how things unfold. One thing's for sure, a friend of mine will hear about you in the meantime."

"Friend?"

Samuels nodded. "Name's Nathan Beaumont. Best friend the Confederacy ever had. He might be…interested in you. For now, though, I'll take my leave and get the doc. You need a dressing on those stitches."

* * *

**A/N: Please review!** I want your feedback and comments. In fact I will sit at my computer gathering cobwebs, awaiting those notification e-mails. Okay, not really, but review anyway :D


	10. Scars

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

**A/N:** I apologize once again for the long wait. This chapter was another toughie. Nellie's storyline involves intrigue, and that's not an area I'm particularly skilled in depicting. At least, I don't think so. Anyway, this is the longest chapter yet but I couldn't see a way to cut it down...

**WARNING#1:** Description of rape. It's not explicit, but it's there.

**WARNING #2:** There's a character in this chapter who's a real racist bastard. He says some things that might offend you. Just remember, it's this one evil character speaking - not me. Attitudes like this abounded during this time period and, unfortunately, persist to this day. I'm not portraying my own views in this character; I'm reporting historical fact. My goal was to create a character who would be hated for his bigotry. But if all this is going to offend you, feel free not to read it. :)

* * *

**10**

**Scars.**

**September, 1862.  
**

Nellie hadn't expected espionage to be anywhere close to easy; but she was finding out that it was actually much more difficult than she had anticipated.

Two weeks separated Nellie's arrival at the captain's Charleston house from the removal to his Georgia plantation – not much time, she knew, to discover whether the town house held any secrets in which her employer, Danforth, might be interested. Beaumont certainly wasted no time in introducing Nellie to certain acquaintances of his – highly-placed men, he told her, who shared his vision of an alliance between the Confederacy and the British Empire, and who were intensely interested in cultivating a relationship with Nellie's "uncle" the shipbuilder. Through these associations, Nellie learned that her host was not only assisting his government with the financing of military efforts, but also placing his vast bank account at the service of the blockade running effort, hoping to ensure the continuation of trade by supporting English merchants through the construction of sloops custom-built for the purpose. Beaumont had, in fact, sustained considerable loss because of this particular line of interest, and was hoping that Nellie could assist him in obtaining faster, lower-profile ships. Not that this particular tidbit surprised her – she remembered the fire in his eyes when he'd shown her the Yankee blockade off the Charleston shore.

When Beaumont wasn't entertaining his comrades at home, he was meeting them in the city; but Nellie quickly learned that even these absences did not increase her opportunity to search the house. The slaves were always about, appearing around corners when least expected, issuing from the very walls it seemed – no doubt utilizing a sort of "backstairs" system with which only they were familiar. Nellie had come to think of the captain's study, with its fast-locked door, as a kind of holy grail of her mission: she felt certain that, if there was anything to be discovered in this house, it would be kept there. But whenever she attempted to close in on this elusive goal, hairpin in hand, one of the slaves would come down the hall, pass by the study door…It was impossible for her to approach and take time to pick the lock without being spotted. She thought there might be another entrance to the room, through those back passages the slaves used to move unseen about the house; but how to find it…She was utterly ignorant of the layout of the slave areas – didn't even know how to find access to these hidden recesses of the house. She didn't want to chance exploring these areas on her own and risk discovery.

Growing increasingly frustrated, she finally decided that her only chance might come when the house was sleeping. One night she stayed awake till she heard the hall clock strike half-two, and crept downstairs, hairpin at the ready. Bare-footed, she moved soundlessly along the corridors, keeping close to the edge of the steps so they wouldn't creak, using only the moonlight to guide her, pausing only to listen for any movement elsewhere in the house. Stepping off the bottom stair, she pressed herself against the wall and slunk through the grand entry, rounding the parlor doorway, making her way across the room to the far door and out into the narrow hall beyond. It was darker here, but she pressed on, confident that she was familiar enough with the house to pick out the way to her destination even through the dimness. Halfway down the hall, she stopped – that was a slow popping sound she'd heard, like the groan of wood beneath a heavy tread. Her heart raced – suddenly she couldn't move; her limbs had turned to stone. She swallowed, forced herself to breathe through her nose. "Pull yourself together, silly nit," she whispered to herself – it was the settling of the house that she'd heard, nothing more…Trembling now, she forced one foot to lift, then placed the other before it, and was soon moving forward again, albeit more slowly…The study door lay just a few yards ahead on the left, at the end of the hall…her eyes fastened on it, her fingers twirled the hairpin in her hand; she was almost there –

A dark shape coalesced out of the shadows – she gasped and jumped nearly out of her skin.

"Miss Templeton?"

She couldn't see the man's features, but the size of silhouette and the distinctive tenor of his voice told her it was Marcus.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed breathlessly, her heart in her throat. "Marcus – you scared the life out of me!"

As she watched, the Marcus-shadow seemed to melt out from the surrounding darkness, and she could see that he was fully dressed. Good God, did the man never sleep?... "Is everything all right, ma'am?" he asked in a solicitous voice.

"Oh," Nellie answered, her heart fluttering sickeningly. "Couldn't sleep. Figured I'd take a turn round the house for a bit."

Marcus stepped forward now, slowly gliding towards her; and she found herself backing away despite her resolve to appear fearless, as though she had nothing to hide. "Captain Beaumont sometimes suffers from sleeplessness," said the slave, his voice deep and smooth like a sea of honey. "I sometimes make a tonic for him. Would you like me to – "

"Oh no," she protested immediately, her voice sounding unnaturally loud, suddenly very averse to accepting any "tonic" this man might have to offer. Her flesh was crawling with some indefinable dread. "I think my walk has tired me out; I'll be right soon enough."

"If you're sure, ma'am."

"Yes! of course. Good night." And she turned and went off hastily, grateful to get away. A glance over her shoulder showed her only a pair of silvery glittering eyes, watching her retreat from the shadows near the study door.

That had put an end to her nocturnal forays.

But despite being thwarted at seemingly every turn, she told herself to be patient. And then the day came to journey to Beaumont's plantation.

No better opportunity for espionage would present itself, thought Nellie, than the hubbub and confusion surrounding the preparations for this trip. The slaves were out of the way, busy about their work, and Beaumont himself was preoccupied with directing the activity. Best of all, Marcus had gone ahead to Elysium some days before to make sure all was in readiness for the captain's arrival. Nellie had readied her own belongings the night before, and so was free to keep an eye out for any available opportunities. Just what she was anticipating, she didn't know; but she felt she'd know it when she saw it.

And she did.

Slipping downstairs and making sure all eyes were turned the other way, Nellie made her way to the captain's study for the first time since that unlucky night. To her astonishment, she found that the knob yielded under her hand. Beaumont must have forgotten to re-lock it behind him in the rush of departure – or he'd already removed anything of real value. Taking a deep, steeling breath, Nellie pushed the door and entered the room.

She didn't have time to assess her surroundings – she headed straight to the large oak desk and tried every drawer in rapid succession. They were all unlocked, and riffling through their contents revealed nothing of interest. Just when she'd begun muttering to herself in a fury, she grasped the handle of the last drawer, and it stuck fast.

Her heart skipped a beat. A locked drawer certainly promised possibilities. Withdrawing the hairpin she'd tucked into her sleeve, she worked the thin metal into the lock till she heard the telltale click, and pulled the handle.

The first few papers on top of the pile within told her nothing, and her heart sank as she thought this enterprise might prove entirely pointless. "Come on, Nate, blast you, I know you're hidin' somethin'," Nellie whispered, her fingertips ruffling the stack…bills of lading, receipts for transactions showing exorbitant dollar amounts, scraps of paper bearing hastily-scribbled and sometimes illegible notes, each in a different handwriting. Still, nothing she didn't already know – evidence of dealings with British arms manufacturers showing shipments of British-made weapons…a telegram reporting the capture of a sloop and the resulting loss of cargo…and, at the very bottom of the pile, a slit-open envelope, face down.

Hastily taking up the envelope, Nellie withdrew a folded paper, opened it up, and scanned the message it contained. It was dated a week prior and had come from a Major Donald Harrison, who gave an address in Richmond, Virginia, the Confederate capital. _My dear Nathan,_ it read: _I have pursued every avenue, but President Davis has once again denied your request for an audience. I cannot say that I was shocked by this outcome – nor that I was disappointed by it. As your friend, I strongly advise that you abandon this course. If you persist, you risk the loss of your rank, and perhaps very much more. I understand where your true loyalties lie; but others may see your agenda as subversive at best, and traitorous at worst. If you value the cause – and I know you do – you will make this your last attempt to bring President Davis over to your way of thinking. _And it was signed _Yours – Don Harrison._

Nellie barely had a moment to contemplate the meaning of this terse, cryptic missive when she heard her name being called somewhere in the house. Cursing under her breath, she stuffed the letter back into its envelope, replaced it at the bottom of the drawer, and shut the drawer tightly, applying the hairpin to re-secure the lock. Not for all the riches of India would she risk Beaumont trying that drawer one more time before leaving and finding it had been tampered with. But the pin rattled about in vain; her hands were shaking so badly…

"Nellie?" she heard again – it was Beaumont's voice, and now it was closer.

"Come on," she said to the hairpin, calling it all manner of rude names…Her fingers felt clumsy and heavy. Bloody hell, this had been simple enough when she'd borrowed from Albert's "secret" cash hoard for a bottle of sherry now and then…"Come _on_…"

There were footsteps in the hallway now, drawing rapidly near…

Nellie breathed a silent prayer and gave the hairpin one last twist – the mechanism caught – she tucked the makeshift lockpick back into her sleeve, straightened, and headed for the door. She had just rounded the desk when Nathan Beaumont appeared framed in the doorway, robbing her of breath and setting her pulse racing.

His brow furrowed when he saw her, but in confusion, not anger; and his voice was light. "Nellie? I've been looking all over for you. What are you doing in here?"

Her smile felt strained, and she cursed the breathlessness of her reply. "Looking for you, actually. I tried the door and it was open. Suppose we missed each other in passing."

Beaumont nodded, appearing to accept this. "Well," he said, "I came to let you know everything's ready. The carriage is at the door," he finished, with a small smile. His enthusiasm for returning to Elysium was obvious – and contagious. Nellie found herself looking forward to the trip almost as much as he did.

"Thank you, I'm sure."

"Why don't you go along ahead? I need to make one last inspection in here, make sure I'm not leaving anything important."

The satisfaction of knowing that the man would find nothing amiss brought a genuine smile to Nellie's face. "Of course, Nathan. See you in a minute, then."

**************

Elysium was approached by a drive better-kept than most proper roads and about five miles long (or so it seemed to Nellie), lined either side with majestic yew trees whose branches reached towards one another across the road and interlaced, forming a shelter against the Georgia sun, strong and hot even in early September. So lengthy was this approach that Nellie started to wonder where the house was – and just then, as if in response to her thoughts, the yew branches opened onto a wide prospect of endless green lawn and blue sky, and the house came into view: massive and gleaming in the sun, a mixture of noble and rustic with its triangle pediments and great columns side by side with railed porches and open verandahs. On either side of the great front door, two splashes of color broke the façade's uniform whiteness. Nellie recognized one from seeing it everywhere in Charleston – a blue jack with a circle of seven stars, and wide red bars horizontally bracing a strip of white – as the flag of the Confederate nation. The other, she surmised, must be the flag of the state of Georgia.

Beaumont's carriage, leading the group, was the first to pull to a stop at the door, and Nellie saw the captain spring from the vehicle – almost before it came to a full stop – with the energy of a schoolboy. Taking the porch steps two at a time, he approached the front door – but just as he reached his hand towards the knob, the door flew open and two children barreled out, flinging themselves on him and crying _"Uncle Nathan!"_ in unison.

The captain laughed and drew them into a rough embrace, saying "How's my favorite niece and nephew?" at which they erupted into excited, unintelligible babble. Beaumont listened to this good-naturedly, and when they paused for breath, asked if they'd been good while he was away.

"Jefferson hasn't," the girl insisted. She was about nine years old, from what Nellie could tell. "He keeps pulling my braids."

Beaumont's scowl didn't reach his eyes. "Now, Jefferson, what's this I hear? If you aren't nice to your sister I'll have to reconsider that present I've got locked up in one of those trunks."

Both children bounced on their toes on hearing this. "Did you really bring us presents from Charleston, Uncle Nathan?" said little Jefferson – the little lad couldn't have been more than six, and he shouted the words like one accustomed to raising his voice as the only way to be heard, being one so small in a house so large – and the captain replied "When have I not?..."

Nellie's own carriage rolled to a stop then, and the slaves began quickly unloading the baggage and carrying it inside. As Nellie was handed out by the driver, Beaumont's niece looked at her askance, tugged on her uncle's jacket, and whispered "Who's that?"

Grinning widely, Beaumont introduced the children to Nellie. She knelt in front of them to place herself at their level, and they politely shook her hand, each with a shy "How d'you do?"

She fell in love with them at once.

"Millicent! Jefferson!"

Nellie rose. It was a feminine voice, calling from within the house; and in a moment its owner followed the sound: a tall woman, just broad-shouldered enough to be considered athletic instead of masculine; her face handsome but haughty, gray eyes – like Beaumont's, only colder – studying the tableau on the porch. This, Nellie surmised, could only be the captain's sister.

"Don't bother your uncle now," the woman said. "I'm sure he's tired from his journey."

Amid protests from the children, their mother told them that supper would soon be on the table, and ordered them to go inside and wash up. When they reluctantly trudged into the house, still groaning their complaints, the woman turned her proud head in Nellie's direction. Suddenly Nellie was put in mind of a bird of prey sizing up its quarry.

The good humor Beaumont had displayed in his young relatives' presence seemed to melt off him. "Eleanor Templeton," he said, "this is my sister, Mrs. Minerva Harrison."

_Harrison…Harrison…_That was the name Nellie had seen on the mysterious letter in Beaumont's desk.

The captain's sister inclined her head in a wordless greeting. Something about her aloof demeanor told Nellie not to offer her hand, so she merely said "It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Mrs. Harrison."

"Please call me Minerva, my dear," the woman replied in a melodious southern lilt. "Nathan speaks very highly of you in his last letter, and any friend of my dear brother is of course a friend of mine."

An indefinable edge in her tone belied the civility of her words – and though Nellie kept eye contact with her, in the corner of her eye she could see Beaumont's face, his jaw joint pulsing as though gritting his teeth – perhaps to bite back what he wanted to say?

For the first time – and, she hoped, the last – the captain's expression unexpectedly reminded Nellie of Sweeney Todd, of the way the barber used to clench his teeth when rage simmered inside him…

In what Nellie suspected was a conscious attempt to draw attention away from her (for which she was devoutly grateful), Beaumont asked "Where is my brother-in-law?"

"Evan was called to Richmond only yesterday," said Minerva – keeping her eyes on Nellie. "I didn't have time to write you."

Nellie did a quick mental calculation. The name on Beaumont's letter was Harrison, but the first name…what was it?...Daniel? David? Not Evan, at any rate…Perhaps Harrison was simply a common name, and there was no relation after all?...

Beaumont pinched the bridge of his nose. If ever a man needed a drink, Nellie thought, it was this one, right now. "I wanted to speak with him about – " But he stopped himself, and sighed. "When will he return?"

"Why, I imagine he'll be gone quite some time. There's important business to attend to now that the invasion of the North is underway."

Beaumont's brow creased. "Any more word on Manassas?"

"Not as I've heard; but there's a letter from your friend Samuels on the hall table. Arrived yesterday. I'm sure it can tell you more than I can."

With a curt nod, Beaumont moved into the house, taking Nellie's arm as he did so, bringing her with him. "I apologize for my sister," he muttered.

"Oh, no need," said Nellie, matching his hushed tone.

"You be careful of her, Nellie…She's my sister and I love her, but she can be a downright snake when she wants to…"

Nellie suppressed the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. "I'll take that under advisement," was all she said.

The magnificent front hall – bright, open and airy, the grand staircase swooping upward to a gallery and a skylight that must have been fifty feet above the floor, the far wall giving way to wide French doors looking onto a stone verandah – was abuzz with activity, the household slaves continuing to cart trunks, valises, and bags to the upstairs rooms. Beaumont made his way to a small table at the foot of the stairs, on which rested a silver salver piled with envelopes of various shapes, sizes, and colors. Sifting through them, he selected one and said "This had better be good news" as he slipped his little finger under the flap –

"Captain! Captain Beaumont!"

He paused and looked up. Nellie did the same, and saw a sweating, dusty, breathless, bedraggled black man hauling himself across the back verandah.

Beaumont's expression grew stern. "Caesar?..."

"Captain Beaumont, sir," said the slave, with an imploring gesture – Nellie glanced at his hands, and they were red and raw, old white scratch-marks mingling with fresh red cuts, some still weeping. "You got to come quick."

"What is it?"

"It's the overseer, sir. Jamie got too much sun and wanted some water and the overseer, he said no; but Jackson snuck away an' Mr. Stone, he got the whip out – "

While the man was still speaking, Beaumont stalked out the French doors, his face dark with fury. Caesar followed behind, still explaining the incident. "Mr. Stone, he been whalin' away on Jamie's back must be a quarter hour by now…"

*************

Beaumont seemed to own the entire state of Georgia – as the sturdy work cart rolled through the teeming fields of cotton, Nellie could see no other houses as far as her vision could reach. And stretched across that vast acreage was a veritable army of slaves – men, women, and children, the hale and young alongside the old and tired, backs bent, most bare-headed under the battering sun. From some areas Nellie heard singing – strange and foreign to her ears, haunting, melancholy and hopeful somehow at the same time. But she had the distinct feeling that this song was a means of survival, the only way to push moment by moment through days of drudgery.

She suddenly realized that they weren't being paid a penny for this. Their entire lives in service, breaking their backs in the heat and cold from dawn to dark, and not a single copper in return.

And then something happened that Nellie Lovett hadn't experienced since…she didn't know when. She couldn't remember the last time this feeling had taken hold of her – if, indeed, it ever had.

So alien was this feeling that she couldn't even put a name to it. Was it pity?...

She acknowledged that their lives and hers were very different; but at the same time, there had been a long stretch of years – an eternity, it seemed at the time – when she'd felt rather like a slave herself. There had been days – weeks – when she'd labored in that blasted pie shop night and day for no return, racking up debts she had no way of paying…selling her body in exchange for a few quid that vanished as soon as she had it in her hand, going hungry, clothing herself in decades-old rags, fighting through illnesses without the aid of a doctor, forcing her limbs to work when there was nothing left within her to fuel them.

Oh yes. She felt for these people.

As for Beaumont, he hadn't spoken a word during the ride; but Nellie could feel the anger steaming off his very skin.

Caesar was at the reins, and Nellie knew they were approaching the site of the altercation when a knot of men came into view, one wearing a wide-brimmed hat and loosely holding a vicious-looking bullwhip in his right hand, gesticulating violently, thrusting his finger threateningly into the face of one of the slaves – who was shirtless and withering under this assault – and shouting at the top of his lungs. The other men stood round in a circle, casting nervous glances at one another, as though considering whether or not to interfere. Caesar pulled the cart right up to this group and stopped, and all heads turned – it seemed every man visibly started in unison on beholding the figure of Beaumont vaulting out of the cart and striding directly up to the man in the wide-brimmed hat – a white man, as Nellie noted when he turned.

"Stone," said the captain, his voice dangerously low. "What's going on here?"

Stone smirked confidently. "This here darkie is insubordinate, sir," he drawled lazily, his voice hoarse – from screaming, Nellie imagined. "Got to be put in his place."

"And how exactly," Beaumont said through his teeth, "did you _put this darkie in his place_, Stone?"

The overseer flashed a yellow, rotten grin. "I give him what-for," he answered, hefting the whip in his hand.

Beaumont's complexion was livid. "I have warned you about this. Have I not informed you that the next time you struck a slave without cause, it would be your last?"

"But I _had_ good cause, Cap'n sir. This jungle monkey disobeyed my direct orders."

"Nathan," Nellie said in a gentle warning, lightly resting her hand on his arm – for he'd started breathing through his nose like a bull about to charge, and she knew he was only a hair's breadth away from striking this man.

"If these workers do not have adequate water, that blame is on you, Stone. Not them."

"Pshaw, Cap. You talk like these nee-groes are real men. Your sister ain't had no quarrel with me all this time, no sir."

"I am the master here."

Stone stepped up to Beaumont then, nose to nose, grinning in the captain's face, and said, "You act mighty like a goddamned abolitionist. All right, then. I'll give 'em water. I'll serve it to 'em outta golden chalices, instead o' makin' 'em get down and lick it outta bowls like the mangy black dogs they are – "

It happened so fast, Nellie could not have described afterwards how it was done. All she knew was that Beaumont somehow tore the whip out of Stone's hand and started thrashing him with it – the air rending with the sharp _phwhit-snap!_ of the weapon over and over as it sliced the air and crashed down on the overseer's shoulders…Stone turned, trying to escape; but Beaumont went after him, bringing the whip down on his back again and again until the man collapsed – and _still_ the blows rained down, the captain's eyes wide, his face red, his teeth bared in wrath as he continually, rapidly flogged the prone, motionless figure…dark stains began spreading through the overseer's shirt…

Sufficiently recovered from the initial shock of seeing Beaumont lose his temper like this, Nellie carefully approached his left side – the side that wasn't flailing the whip – grasped his arm, and spoke his name. She knew he heard her when, after the third repetition, he stopped, arm reared back for another strike.

"Nathan," she said, "that's enough. I think he's learned his lesson. You could get into serious trouble for this." The last thing she needed was for him to be brought up on charges or some such, or to be shunned by his political connections once word of this incident got out. Then where would she be?...

He turned to face her. Had it not been for her experience with Sweeney Todd, she might have shrunk back from him, his features were so altered by rage. He didn't even look like himself.

He let out a shuddering breath, dropped his arm, and nodded. "You're right," he panted. "Of course." Stone was beginning to move again, rolling onto his back, struggling for breath, a disturbing wet wheeze issuing from his lungs. Beaumont looked down at him and said "You're done here. You four – " pointing to some of the slaves standing about observing this incredible scene – "get him out of here. Take the cart. Get him off the property and then I don't give a damn what happens to him."

The slaves nodded and hoisted Stone off the ground, dumped him in the cart, and drove off.

"Caesar."

His mouth still agape, the slave turned. "Y-yes, Cap'n?" he said – with a twinge of fear in his voice, Nellie thought.

"As of this moment, you are the new overseer. Get Jamie up to the house and have Marcus look after him."

Jaw slack with astonishment at this sudden promotion, Caesar nodded mutely and chose one other man to assist him in helping the beaten and shaken but still-standing slave to the house. As the little group moved away, Nellie saw Jamie's back and what Stone had done to him: a tangle of scars, old wounds mixing with new – like Caesar's hands – a mass of white welts and red slashes, blood glistening wetly in the bright sunlight….

_He came to her nearly every night now. It was typically very late when he stole into her room. He would turn her doorknob silently, push the door open slowly, making its hinges creak. Sometimes he would stand there a moment, as though his eyes were gazing on her, his silhouette limned by the pale moonlight, a darker shadow among the black shapes of her room. He would keep the knob turned in his hand as he shut the door, so it wouldn't make a sound; and he would slip off his shoes and creep across to the bed. All of this was to avoid waking her, she supposed. _

_Then – she laughed inside when she thought of it – he would unceremoniously pull the blankets aside, get under them, and draw her to him roughly, ensuring that she'd wake anyway._

_She never got any sleep until this happened. How could she possibly? She lay awake with anticipation, conjuring waking dreams of how they would pass the night; and when she heard his footfalls outside her door she shut her eyes and feigned slumber, watching his entrance under her lashes._

_He always stayed, and this had surprised her at first. She knew that he was not a tender man; she hardly expected him to remain, allowing her to drape herself over him, occasionally even throwing his own arm around her. She always took full advantage of this, remaining wakeful long after he'd fallen asleep, watching him. She was in the fight of her life every time they were together – to bite back the words _I love you_, the words she yearned to murmur in his ear over and over and over. But she knew full well that if she said them, he would shy away like a wild thing shies from a trap, and she would lose him. So sometimes – as now, when he lay sleeping beside her – her lips formed the words without voicing them, without even daring to put breath behind them, her eyes slowly traveling over the face that had been gone from her life for so long._

"_Look at you…all broken up inside…I love you more now than I ever did. I loved you even then, you know; and I hated her for havin' you, for havin' your child, for havin' your heart and your soul…I hated _you_, for bein' so mad for her…I loved you, I loved you every day that you were gone…Did you ever feel a hand on you in the night, strokin' your hair, smoothin' your forehead…did you ever hear a voice whisperin' to you, tryin' to lull you to sleep, tryin' to take your pain away? That were me, Mr. Todd…that were __me__ thinkin' about you a world away, and lovin' you…you'll never know how much…" _

_Only in this furtive way could she give her heart to him completely._

_She drank him in now, the moonlight creeping round the edges of the shutters allowing her eyes to roam every inch of him, the flash of white in his hair, his handsomely sculpted features: the plain of his brow, the rings of shadow about his eyes, the bridge of his nose, a nearly imperceptible rise in its straight slope, as though it had been broken – his cheekbones, like white veinless marble…his lips, so often pressed into a hard scowl or frown or bitter smirk, relaxed now, making him look almost at peace, their upper line curved like a hunter's bow…How she wished she could press her own lips to them now, and feel him respond, matching her fervor yet tenderly, softly…Her gaze traveled hungrily along his strong whiskered jaw, down his throat, over his collarbones, his sternum that rose and fell evenly with his breathing; her eyes sought the flesh concealed by the shirt he always insisted on wearing, a barrier between them even when he was with her like this. It was a sign, she thought, of the reality of their life: always together, yet never completely – always joined, yet never fully one._

_Her ardent visual exploration stopped when she caught sight of something snaking out from beneath the edge of his garment, where it lay open below the collar – that same thick line, whiter even than his pale skin, that she'd first noticed on the night he'd told her never to approach him in his own rooms. _

_He never spoke of this imperfection, and she knew his temper would snap if she ever again questioned him about its origin; but she wasn't stupid. It was plainly a scar, and she didn't have to be a bloody sleuth in order to deduce that he'd received it during his imprisonment. She sighed deeply at the thought of that time, what he must have endured all alone, and wished he would let her share that pain…She leaned further over him, whispering "What did they do to you, my love?" as her hand tentatively reached out, her fingertips brushing the edge of his shirt just enough to gingerly push the fabric aside –_

_And she noticed another mark, just at the V where the shirt was buttoned, halfway down his ribcage._

_Her breath caught, and she went still. She glanced up to his face. He certainly __seemed __fast asleep, his body perfectly motionless aside from his deep and steady breathing…Her fingers began moving again carefully, slowly releasing the buttons of his shirt (glancing at his face from time to time, assessing whether he was close to waking), until she finally unfastened the last one._

_When she cautiously drew aside the material covering him, she gasped in shock. She thought he must have more scars than only the one she'd seen; but never, never had she expected this – a positive network of raised tracks, some shorter, some longer – some white, some still an ugly red – ropy and jagged, straight, rounded, puckered, thick, narrow, crossing, overlapping – like a haphazard bas-relief carved within his flesh._

"_Oh my God," she breathed, tears welling to her eyes, her fingers hovering above these remnants of his past. She tried to count them and finally gave up. She could only stare, overcome by what she was seeing: at last, at __last__ she was gazing on the souvenirs of his torment, the time he would not allow her to know, would never speak of and had forbidden her to mention. But at least she could look at them secretly, like this, and they could tell her __something__…She could almost hear them, every one trying to tell its story, screaming to be heard…Scars were meant to be ugly reminders of painful things, she thought: to mar and disfigure. But these – she was surprised and amazed to find them almost beautiful, because they revealed who this man really was, his strength, what he was made of, what he'd overcome –_

_A hand snaked out in the darkness and caught her wrist, gripping it like a vise – she started and let out a sharp cry – his eyes were open now, glittering like cold, hard flints, his face twisted in a sneer. "You want to look at all this, my dear?" he growled, no vestige of sleep in his voice – and she knew he'd been awake the entire time. "All this shit?" _

_But her heart was drumming fast and hard and her breath was still ragged from the shock he'd caused her, and she couldn't form any response._

_Without releasing her, Todd sprang up and sat on his heels, keeping his eyes locked on hers, and roughly pressed her hand to his side. "This here, this were a knife I took for tryin' to get an extra ration o' water," he said._

"_Sweeney – "_

"_What? This is what you want. Here – " moving her hand – "this is from the bullet what struck me the first time I tried to escape," he went on, fairly spitting the words, ignoring or not caring about her struggles to break free of his crushing grip, forcing her hand to a new location on his torso each time he spoke. "This is from a whip – and this too, 'cause I weren't haulin' rocks fast enough…This here's from when a guard put out his cigar on me 'cause I were handy and an ashtray weren't…Feel this lump in my ribs? It's from when I were beaten so hard I nearly – "_

_He broke off, holding her hand against him, breathing hard, his eyes fastened on her – no longer meeting her own eyes, but focused somewhere around her left ear. Then he threw her hand away and said "Might as well do this right, my dear;" and shrugged his shirt off his shoulders and turned from her, facing the shuttered windows. She could see him trembling with rage; and she could see the evidence of the devastation wrought on his back by punishments she could only imagine. _

_Angrily he drew the shirt up to cover his shoulders again, hiding the scars from her view. "Satisfied, are you? Make you happy, does it?"_

_It didn't make her happy at all. She wished she'd never been so damned curious. She ached for him. She wanted to weep and take him in her arms and soothe him, but she knew he would see such actions as pity; and though pity was one thing she didn't hold for him, she knew he would despise her for the mere suspicion of it. So a long while passed in silence as she waited: for his breathing to steady, for the tension to fall from his frame, for the air between them to settle and grow pliant again. She watched for the little signs that would tell her she might be able to approach him; and when after a seeming eternity she saw them – his shoulders slackened, his arms heavy on his knees, hands limp, his back expanding and contracting slowly with his now-stable breaths – she shifted her position, moving around to his right side, half-facing him. Stretching out the hand he'd taken such painful hold of moments before, she brushed her fingertips along a jagged ring between his hip and the bottom of his ribcage._

_He flinched at her touch, but didn't pull away. _

"_What's this one?" she breathed._

_He swallowed. "Broken bottle," he answered after a moment, tonelessly, his face still turned from her, looking towards the shutters. She wondered briefly if he was actually seeing them._

_She lifted her hand, moving to touch another scar, this one nearly imperceptible, just by his right shoulder. "And this?..."_

"_Stabbed me with a sharpened stick. Got infected. Almost died."_

_The anger in his voice had abated completely now, leaving only a kind of emptiness, as though his own voice were merely an echo. "This?" she asked, caressing a collection of shadowy red pock-marks on his bicep._

"_Bastard sank his teeth into me…"_

_He wasn't looking at her, but she could see that his eyes were sad and tired and distant. Though he was responding to her queries, she knew he wasn't really there. He was thousands of miles away, receiving those scars again, every one of them, their causes branded indelibly into his mind. _

_This would be the time, she knew – right now, or never at all._

_Her eyes went to his hair, to the white lock that was like the tail of a comet burning across the black night sky. She heard a quick, sharp intake of breath – he knew what she was going to do…Slowly, dreamlike, she reached up and touched that peculiar scar._

_His head snapped away from her hand, and he averted his face even more from her questioning eyes. He said nothing._

_Defeated, Nellie sighed, and let her hand fall away from his brow. It was a bitter disappointment. She'd come so close, she'd almost gotten through to him…She knew instinctively that if he didn't open up to her now, he'd never let her in; and now the moment had passed, lost forever. _

_This, she felt, was one of those times when any further attempt at communication would risk arousing his temper. Besides, she felt very much an intruder all of a sudden, a third party, there in that room with him and a past she didn't belong to. So she gathered her dressing gown from the foot of the bed and made ready to leave, with the idea of passing a sleepless night on the parlor sofa._

_Just as she turned to do this, he began to speak._

"_I'd been in the colony long enough to get most o' these scars, long enough to think if nothin' worse had already happened to me, then it never would," he said. "I thought if I kept my head down, obeyed all the rules, did my labor, I'd be left alone. I didn't want to know those men, wanted nothin' to do with any one of 'em. That was a mistake. I should've sought protection. There were groups of inmates there what watched out for their own, took out retribution if somethin' happened to one of 'em. Should've joined up with one. But I thought – " he broke off, and a noise of harsh self-deprecation barked in his throat – "even then, even after what Turpin done to me, I insisted on believin' really horrible things couldn't happen to good men. That my innocence would keep me safe. That…God protected the falsely accused."_

_He paused so long that Nellie thought he'd said as much as he was ever going to divulge of the matter. But he surprised her by going on._

"_A man come up to me one evenin' after supper, said the warden wanted to see me. He weren't a guard, but I was a fool and trusted him. I followed him out…he took hold o' me soon as we got out the door, dragged me round the corner, hauled me back behind one o' the barracks. There were seven of 'em, plus him, waitin', and they grabbed me and pinned me down in the dirt."_

_Nellie began to suspect what had happened, and she didn't need (or want) to hear any more. She was far from a squeamish woman; she'd seen and endured much and prided herself on having built up an immunity to the very worst that life in this wretched world could pitch her way. But this…Not this. Not him. She'd wish it on herself before knowing he'd gone through it. It would be easier, she suspected, surviving such a violation herself than watching someone she loved so deeply struggle and stumble through its aftermath, because then she would at least have power over her own mind, choose for herself the manner by which to emerge on the other side of her anguish. As it was, she was utterly helpless to do anything but watch him suffer…and knowing who he'd been at the time, that sweet, chaste Benjamin Barker, so blissfully ignorant of the monstrosities men were capable of…_

_Suddenly feeling lightheaded, she swallowed and forced out the words "You don't have to say any more – "_

_But he held up a hand, stopping her._

_"One of 'em kept hold o' my wrists over my head, two of 'em grabbed my face, clamped my jaw shut so I couldn't even scream while it was goin' on."_

_Now she understood why he couldn't bear to have his face touched._

"_They held me down and the biggest one threw himself on me and leaned over me and called me – " He broke off and didn't speak for some time, as though composing himself, forcing himself to get to the end; and when he continued his voice was hollow and emotionless, as though he were only rattling off scientific facts instead of relating the worst abomination of his life. "He told me if I didn't want the whores the warden sent in, I must like somethin' else better. And then all of 'em, one after the other…took turns keepin' me down, and some of 'em had a go twice. Did…unspeakable things. I don't remember 'em stoppin'. I blacked out before it was over. Weren't soon enough. Don't know what they did to me while I was out."_

_He paused. Nellie sat motionless, giving him time – glad for the lull for her own sake too. She was sick at heart, her insides churning with rage and revulsion at what she'd just heard; and she needed to stay calm, to think clearly, to be present for him. Oh, if only she could get her hands on the filthy bastards, she'd see them pay dearly for what they'd done…no excess of pain would be too much…wouldn't wait till they were dead to chop them up, she wouldn't…When at length Sweeney spoke again his whisper was desperate, unlike him, as though he'd been asking himself this question every day for nearly two decades and had never found the answer, and was voicing it aloud now for the first time._

"_What does that make me, Eleanor?" he said._

_Startled that he'd addressed her directly, Nellie blinked back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes and collected her voice with a small clearing of her throat. What could she possibly say to him?..._

"_It makes you a man terrible things happened to," she answered, her voice strained._

"_A man? That what bein' buggered by eight blokes does? Makes me a man?"_

_She reached for him – but at the last moment thought better of touching him just now, and withdrew her hand. "It weren't your fault, Sweeney. It weren't your choice, it was forced on you."_

"_A man would've fought back," he said harshly. "A man would've torn 'em apart with his bare hands before allowin' that…"_

_Nellie knew it would be no use to argue with him – if such an idea had taken solid hold in his mind, it would take much more than mere words to dislodge it. But this history answered many things about the man who'd come back to Fleet Street calling himself Sweeney Todd. It explained why he was always so rough in their passion – she reasoned that he didn't want to surrender control, to make himself vulnerable in any way – why he so often stiffened in wary defense at her more gentle advances, why he so frequently avoided her eyes, why he was so guarded… _

_Why he loathed the human race so deeply that, if he had his way, he'd slay every last man breathing._

_The atrocity committed by his fellow inmates hadn't begun the blackening of his soul – Turpin had done that – but it had undoubtedly set him on a course that the subsequent fifteen years could only have hastened. Nellie feared, for the first time, that the final result might never be reversed; and she cursed her powerlessness to excise this diseased remembrance from his mind._

_She swallowed and breathed deep, taking some moments to let all this sink in, before asking him softly, "So what happened?"_

"_Woke up next mornin' stinkin' of my own vomit…and them…bein' half-carried by one o' the trusties."_

_The term was unfamiliar to her. "Trusty?"_

"_Some inmates who worked for the guards and the warden, keepin' order. The one who found me…Rory O'Bannon…took me to the infirmary, near dead. Wished I had been. When I looked in the mirror to shave two days later…this bit o' my hair had gone white."_

_He spoke as though he'd reached the end of the story; but Nellie knew him, and she knew there was more. "And what did you do to 'em? The shits what hurt you?"_

"_O'Bannon took me under his wing after that, convinced the warden I'd make a good trusty, so I'd have some protection. Warden found out I'd been a barber and put me in charge o' groomin' him and his staff, guards and whatnot. Give me a good set o' razors to work with. I found every one o' those…swine…and slit their throats with joy in my heart. Those were the first men I ever killed, and that's where I learned vengeance, my dear."_

_Her eyes narrowed. "And you didn't get caught?"_

_"Trusties all looked out for one another," he answered simply._

_She nodded slowly, rejoicing in her heart that at least those human refuse had gotten their comeuppance at her beloved's hands. "Well that must've given you some satisfaction, at least," she said._

"_Didn't take any of it away, Nell. What they did still happened, nothin' changed that. Nothin' ever will." He paused for a bit, as though carefully considering his next words, then said quietly, "I'd done somethin' so…unnatural – "_

"_You didn't do anything, love," Nellie insisted once again, unable to bear hearing him speak about himself this way. "It's somethin' was done to you." _

_But he shook his head and said, "After what they done I felt like I was ruined for my wife. Felt…tainted, like. I weren't worthy of comin' back to her. Doubted I could be a proper father after that."_

_Cold dread crawled over Nellie's skin at those words. They were too familiar…too similar to what Lucy Barker had said to her after she'd been ravaged by Turpin…_"I've betrayed my husband…I'm ruined for him…how can I face him when he comes home?...It's indecent, unnatural; I'm not worthy of him, I'm – "

_Tainted. She'd used the very word. She'd been hysterical, sobbing that her Benjamin would be repulsed by her, turn her out. That she'd been so befouled by what Turpin had inflicted on her that she was no longer fit to bring up her precious, innocent daughter. Nellie had told her such talk was all nonsense, but she hadn't been willing to hear…_

_But in the midst of these thoughts Sweeney's voice came again, bitterly, and Nellie knew the reason he'd said such a thing. "Still want me in your bed, do you? Knowin' all this?"_

_In reply, she reached up, bravely took hold of his shirt, and pushed it from his shoulders, taking it down his arms until it was lying behind him among the blankets and he was exposed to her for the first time. He turned to face her fully then, his expression dubious, telling her_ _wordlessly not to toy with him. Surprised and encouraged that he wasn't resisting her, she ran her eyes over his scars once again, and the backs of her fingers grazed them, slowly, taking in their ragged texture. She looked up, and found that he was regarding her with an expression she couldn't quite read – something in his eyes she'd never seen before._

_And as her gaze landed on that blaze of white in his tangled sable locks, that specter of his torment, she whispered, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."_

"Nellie?"

Beaumont's voice brought her back to the present. The anger was gone now; his voice was quiet as usual, and tender.

"Oh my dear," he said – and lifted a hand to her face, ran his thumb lightly along her cheekbone, drawing a wetness across her face. Only then did she realize that she was silently crying. And this man was gently wiping her tears away. "I am sorry you had to see that."

She tried to speak and couldn't – could only nod wordlessly. The fact was that he'd gained her respect for what he'd done to the overseer. He'd shown a side of himself Nellie hadn't known he possessed, and she admired him for it. And now, when she looked into those storm-gray eyes of his, she found herself thinking of him in a new way: not as an armchair soldier, not as a politician, not as someone to be spied upon; but as a man with convictions and passions who lived his own truth, and behaved as though anyone who found fault with those convictions could go straight to the devil. She was confused and intrigued; she'd never known anyone like him.

No, she realized. That wasn't entirely true. Somehow, in a different way, Sweeney Todd had harbored much the same attitude.

Offering her his arm, the captain said, "Let's get back to the house, shall we?"

**************

Marcus met them the instant they passed through the French doors. "Captain Beaumont, sir," he said. "I thought you might like to be reminded that the mail still awaits your attention. With the other business you have to attend to, I thought you might want to write any replies as soon as possible. I'll see to it that they're posted tomorrow morning."

Beaumont sighed tiredly. "Yes, Marcus, thank you," he said; though he didn't sound very thankful. Returning to the little table by the grand staircase, he sorted through the mail until he found a particular envelope, opened it, and read its contents.

A great grin spread across his face.

"Why," he exclaimed, "this is the best news I've heard all day! Nellie! Our boys outright thrashed the Yankees at Manassas. I knew we beat them, but I hadn't heard it was a full rout!"

"That's lovely," Nellie replied emotionlessly.

"And look here – my friend Lieutenant Clem Samuels tells me about a particular soldier under his command – the Texas Brigade, you know – apparently this man is a regular firebrand! Fought his way through two New York regiments, took down at least a dozen men single-handed with nothing but a bayonet and a pistol."

He paused, reading silently to himself, and during the pause a well-dressed house slave approached with a tray supporting two tall, frosted glasses of mint julep. Nellie accepted one gratefully, seated herself in a lovely soft armchair by the stairs, and began to sip, savoring the cool beverage as it slid down her parched, dusty throat…

"Listen to this!" Beaumont continued. "Says here the fellow led a charge against a battery of Yankee artillery! Good Lord, why haven't we heard of this man yet?"

Marcus spoke up. "If I may, sir: The story sounds familiar. I do believe there was something in the Milledgeville newspaper. Would you like me to fetch it for you?"

"Yes do, Marcus."

Marcus instantly bowed and moved off.

"The way Samuels writes about him, the man is something more than human!" Beaumont went on. "Completely transformed in battle, like a warrior out of some old legend!...Ah…says here his name's Todd. Only a private, to boot. Well I'll be…"

But Nellie didn't hear him anymore. Her heart had stopped at the word "Todd".

She told herself not to be ridiculous. Todd was a common enough name. She drew a deep breath and took a long, delicious draught of her drink, closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the chair…

"Huh. Says no one seems to know his first name. Apparently he only enlisted as S. Todd."

The liquor caught in Nellie's throat, and she choked down a threatening coughing fit. It couldn't be. What in God's name would he be doing in the Confederate army? It was too absurd. She laughed at herself. She was tired from the trip and still overwhelmed by what had happened with the overseer, and her imagination was running amok. That's what it was. _Bloody hell, Nellie, get hold of yourself…_

"An Englishman," Beaumont was saying, his eyes still on the paper in his hand. "Came over on a blockade runner and enlisted in Galveston."

_An Englishman…S. Todd…slaughters his enemies without mercy, a machine built for killing –_

The mint julep glass shattered on the floor.

* * *

**A/N:** Is Nellie falling for Nathan? Will Nathan summon the heroic S. Todd to his plantation? Tune in next time. Till then, **please review!** Thanks for reading!! :)


	11. Loss

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

**A/N:** I'm sure you're all wondering when Sweeney and Nellie are going to encounter each other in this story. I am happy to say, that anticipated event will occur a mere two chapters from now :D The developing romantic triangle will be in the same room! At the same time!! =O So, just hang tight. I promise, the wait will pay off ;)

Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy this installment...

* * *

**11**

**Loss.**

"_You don't know the horrible aspects of war. I've been through two wars and I know. I've seen cities and homes in ashes. I've seen thousands of men lying on the ground, their dead faces looking up at the skies. __I tell you, war is Hell." – Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman, USA, speech to the graduating class of the Michigan Military Academy, 1879._

**Sharpsburg, Maryland  
****September 17, 1862.****  
**

Private Todd became aware of the stench first – the acrid odor of gunpowder, so strong it seemed his mouth was full of it, gritting between his teeth; the stale, moist smell of his own sweat; the iron scent of blood; the rotting-meat stench of decaying human flesh: all of these blended into one sensation that could only be found in one place in the world. The smell of the battlefield. The scent of war.

The high-pitched hum of swarming flies dimly registered in his still-ringing ears as his eyes struggled open, blinking protectively against the sun. He was lying prone on his belly, the left side of his face sunk in warm, sticky, reeking mud. His right hand still clasped his rifle.

Still alive, then. He swallowed in weak exasperation – and down his throat went a load of dust and a taste of copper. He could feel every part of himself – his fingers flexed on the barrel of his gun; his ankles turned and he felt the soft ground through the toes of his brogans – and he figured he must be in one piece. Slowly, cautiously, he pushed himself to his knees – pain burst into life in his skull; his head swam sickeningly, the ground spun, and he suddenly and unexpectedly vomited. That was when he saw that the mud he'd been lying in had been formed by his own blood, and that the flies he'd heard had been swarming around _him_.

He felt as though someone had put a minie ball through his brain point-blank.

He raised a hand to the left side of his head and felt his hair matted in a clot of gore. How he hadn't been killed, he couldn't fathom. It was all coming back now: the shell had exploded only a few yards away, taking down the entire front line. After that his memory went dark. The shrapnel must have grazed his temple and robbed him of consciousness.

But it hadn't killed him.

He was too sick and exhausted to indulge the anger that pressed at his mind. Casting a glance around to get his bearings, he saw the buildings – riddled with bullet holes, ripped open in places by artillery shells – of the farm where his brigade had chased down a corps of Union infantry only to run straight into a barrage of canister shot from well-placed enemy artillery. After that, the whole bloody thing had been a slaughter. Behind him stretched the cornfield where the Texans had engaged the northerners earlier that day, the stalks of the crops blasted now, sheared in half not by a scythe but by a storm of gunfire – wasted and useless for harvesting. Countless Yankees were still back there, lying lifeless, destroyed by the Texans' brutal, relentless advance; but around Private Todd were scattered the bodies of his own comrades, already bloating in the heat, their open mouths filling with buzzing insects, their flat, dead eyes gazing into the glaring sun.

Men's voices roused him from his assessment of his situation, and he looked up. A burial detail was heading in his direction, men with shovels and pick-axes resting over their shoulders like muskets. Their butternut jackets and slouch hats announced them as Confederates – Alabamians, perhaps. At the risk of being spotted and pressed into service, Todd lifted his rifle – it felt heavier that usual – and placing the stock in the mud, used the weapon as a support to hoist himself to his feet, with the idea that these men might know where his regiment could be located. Shooing the still-clinging flies away with his free hand, and still dizzy, he took some tentative, shuffling steps forward, skirting the corpses. Birds were already beginning to descend on the dead, and more than once Todd nearly tripped over the damned things, had to kick them out of his path.

"Hey there!"

_Oh God._ Todd's shoulders tensed and slouched forward imperceptibly – as though he could hide by sinking his head into his collar. He didn't respond, hoping they'd think he hadn't heard.

"You! Halt there!"

If he kept walking without giving them any reply, they might think he was trying to desert, and shoot him.

He kept walking.

But they didn't shoot. They waited until only a few yards remained between them and Todd, and said "Need some assistance here. Many hands make light work."

One of them extended a shovel. But Todd, still feeling sick from whatever that shrapnel had done to his head, lifted a hand to indicate his bloody temple and said "I'm wounded," hoping this would excuse him.

"You're walkin'," said the man offering the shovel.

"I need to get back to my regiment."

"Which one's that?"

"First Texas."

"They won't miss you. They're prob'ly doin' the same thing we are. Might even run into 'em. Come on now, daylight's burnin'."

Reluctantly, Todd accepted the shovel and moved off with the group. The reek of decaying flesh filled his nostrils as he worked with the others to dig the shallow graves, tossing in the torn and gore-encrusted bodies, burying them where they'd fallen. Some were clutching their own limbs…men in the bloom of youth, their legs blown off, half their faces missing…old men, their beards white, who ought to have died quietly in their beds…some clasping miniature tintypes to their breasts, images of loved ones no doubt…trouser fronts dark where they'd pissed themselves.

"Looky here," said one of the men. "This fella had a letter in his pocket. Guess we'd better send it."

Todd was wondering how the soldier knew what the contents of the dead man's pockets were, when he realized that his temporary companions were looting through the corpses' belongings and taking what they liked. It disgusted him. The filthy, greedy bastards. Vultures. No better than the crows all around them, pecking and fluttering about the human carrion. Todd had never minded taking from the dead – as far as he figured, it wasn't robbery: the deceased wouldn't be needing their money or baubles anymore, and if such cash and trinkets could be put to use for his own livelihood so much the better. (_"Waste not, want not; ain't that right, Mr. T?..."_) But this…somehow this repulsed him. Something about taking from these dead soldiers was disgusting for a reason he couldn't define. And he didn't understand this reaction.

He noticed that one of the men in the detail was searching the bodies around the neck area, feeling around the collars, undoing the top buttons on shirts. Occasionally he would find what he was looking for, remove it, and toss it into his haversack. Todd knew what these things were; he'd seen others in his regiment wearing them: bits of wood crudely burned with the soldier's name on one side, and another name and address on the other. A form of identification, along with the name of a person to notify should the soldier fall.

Suddenly he found himself wondering what the hell it was all for. Looking around at the devastation done to the crops, the barns storing a harvest that would rot without ever being enjoyed, the wrecked forms of the young men at his feet and the evidence they carried of equally wrecked lives…He thought of what Lucy must have gone through when she'd lost him, and wondered if some young woman somewhere far away would drink a bottle of arsenic when she received that letter, or that little wooden tag. He wondered where these soldiers' children would go, whether they'd end up with a sick tyrant like his Johanna had. He wondered what the farmers would do when they returned to this place and saw everything they'd worked so hard for in tatters, just as he had when he'd gone back to London and seen what had become of his home.

It could have been a beautiful place, this Sharpsburg, with its gently rolling land and its farms and its sparkling creek, its lush green banks lying under a clear, cotton-cloud sky. It might be a place that offered a placid life; and now it was in ruins through no fault of its own, caught in the path of two armies fighting a war it didn't ask for. In other circumstances he might be able to imagine himself trying to find peace in a place like this.

_But it's nowhere near the sea. She wouldn't have liked that_.

He screwed up his eyes and shook his head to clear away that disturbing thought. That Nellie Lovett would invade his mind when he imagined finding peace – it was preposterous. Aside from the fact that he ought to be wishing for peace with his dead Lucy, Nellie Lovett had been the one to _end_ any hope of his having peace once and for all. To think of her now was simply nonsensical. But God…how he longed for peace still, despite the impossibility of it: he thirsted after it like a man laboring through a desert. How tired he was. At least, he thought, these lifeless men had peace. He desperately envied their sleep, their oblivion, their removal from the terrible struggle of life. Oh, how he coveted that kind of rest…and Sharpsburg only proved to him that such rest was not to be found except in death. It certainly wasn't to be found in the company of others – that much had been proven to Todd in cruel abundance. No place on earth was immune to the greed and ambition of men. There was no beauty in the world that wasn't eventually destroyed. There was nowhere for him to run to find the quiet he pined for, except to the grave.

Loss. _Loss, loss, loss, loss, loss…_That's all life is, Todd thought. He ought to have bloody well learned that during fifteen years in that godforsaken desert; but like the fool that he was he'd insisted on cherishing the fantasy that he could gain something back again. And even after he'd learned of the loss of his family, he'd come to believe that he could still have something of his own –

(_"We could have a life, us two"_)

– but even that proved to be a cruel, cruel joke – a bait dangled before his face by God or whatever twisted power operated this world, only to be snatched away when it came within his reach.

And now everything was gone. Lost. Everything always would be. There wasn't a thing he could obtain that wouldn't be taken away.

He saw one of the Alabamians removing a picture from a little frame, tossing the paper carelessly to the ground and stuffing the frame into his pocket –

"Put it back," Todd growled.

The man blinked at him with a blank expression, as though Todd had just spoken Japanese.

Todd strode up to the man until he was a mere two inches from his hat-brim. "I'm not fond of repeating myself," he said.

The man's eyes narrowed, and flicked to Todd's hairline. "I know who you are," he said slowly. "First Texas…white stripe…They say you ain't even human. Walked straight outta hell, some say. You look human enough to me. Talk mighty funny, is all." He paused a moment, then shrugged. "This here frame'll pay good money. I can't afford to – "

"I want to see it buried with the man you took it from," Todd snarled.

The Alabamian was still staring at Todd in disbelief when their confrontation was cut short by a shout some yards off: "Hey! Got a live one here!"

One of the men was moving briskly toward them, carrying a slight, limp form across his arms.

"Saw his eyelids flutterin'," he said as he approached. "Gotta get this fella to the surgeon."

Every eye turned in the unconscious soldier's direction, including Todd's. Even that casual glance was enough to set off a spark of recognition: smooth, pale cheeks; light chestnut hair; a mouth too soft to belong to a grown man.

Johnson.

"Hey," said one of the men. "You know this boy?"

Todd realized then that he was staring hard at his regiment-mate; the look on his face must have given his thoughts away. It was disorienting, seeing Johnson this way: usually so full of life, so chatty, so ready with a smile and a joke, so helpful and eager to please, to make a good impression on his fellows…Todd typically found the lad a nuisance; but to see him now, like this, lying as though dead…

He nodded mutely in reply.

"Well, you'll be the one to take him to the field hospital, then," the same man said; and before Todd could react or protest, Johnson was transferred to his arms. The boy felt strangely light, and Todd thought there was something odd about the shape of his torso. He hoped the lad didn't have any broken ribs, or worse, a fractured hip. Such an injury would not bode well for the future of one so young.

"Field hospital," Todd said numbly. "Where is it set up?"

"The Dunker Church."

Todd remembered the little whitewashed building: his regiment had passed it on the way to battle the Yankees at the cornfield.

The matter seemed settled, as the burial detail collectively turned without another word and resumed their grisly task, leaving Todd alone with his burden.

****************

The "Dunker" Church – so nicknamed because its worshipers practiced baptism by complete immersion in water – had been turned into an abattoir. If this hadn't been obvious from the savage wails of agony and protest issuing from the open windows, chilling the very air they sounded on and audible before the building even came into Todd's view, it would have become magnificently clear as he caught sight of the seeping mass of human limbs piled outside the door.

The place stank like the Fleet Street bake house, only a hundred times worse, the fetor of human offal and decay mingled as it was with the harsher vapors of medical preparations. The church consisted of only one small room, and that space was crammed wall to wall with men, lying elbow to elbow, sole of foot to crown of head, crying and sobbing and screaming for their mothers and begging the surgeon not to take off their legs or arms. The medic himself was moving frantically from man to man, assessing the damage borne by each soldier and assigning priority to each case. According to his orders, his assistants would flurry about administering treatments or preparing patients for the brutal impromptu surgery that awaited any man whose bones had been irreparably shattered by the impact of a minie ball or a spray of close-range shrapnel. Such damage could never be repaired. It could only be removed by the wicked teeth of the bone saw.

"Todd."

Startled by the familiar voice, he turned, and saw his old blockade-runner mate, Rayburn, sitting hunched against the nearest wall, his eyes glazed, trembling and sweating, cradling his arm – about four inches of bone were sticking straight up through the skin between his elbow and wrist.

"Fancy seeing you here, mate."

Todd swallowed. "What the hell happened?"

Rayburn shook his head. "Artillery. Tore right through us like we were paper dolls, didn't it? I saw you go down – bloody hell, I'm glad to see you still standin'. You're one tough bastard to kill, aren't you?"

He was trying to smile, but his voice was quavering so badly that Todd could barely understand him. The man nodded towards his own arm, and said "I think the doc'll have to take this off. War might be over for me, mate."

Todd was speechless. There weren't many professions available to a man who'd lost his right arm. Rayburn – and a good number of men in this room – was facing a life of poverty and beggary. Those fortunate enough to have a family that could support them could only look forward to seeing themselves as a burden to that family. And Todd could see in Rayburn's eyes that he was very well aware of the likelihood of such a future.

"Where's MacMullen?" Todd asked – his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Rayburn shook his head. "I don't know. He ain't here, is all I can tell you."

"How does the battle stand?"

Rayburn's eyes went blank. "Stalemate. Neither one of us bloody well won. Yanks pulled back and let us stay on the field but they're hangin' right on our necks, watchin' our next move. You can probably see 'em from the bridge. Word is we'll be pullin' back into Virginia tonight, push north again through a different route. So you'd better get back with the men if you don't want to get left behind. I don't think I'll be joinin' you." A bitter snort sounded in his throat. "No doubt both sides'll claim this as a win. But _nobody_ won." His voice turned desperate as he went on: "Nobody won, mate. All these men are dead and their women widowed and their children orphaned, and nobody won. What the hell is that, hey? You tell me what the bleedin' hell that is!"

"Move aside!" came a harsh bark in Todd's ear, and he turned to see two men bearing a stretcher, trying to get through the door. He stepped aside and allowed them to pass – just as one of the surgeon's assistants came along with a severed leg and tossed it nonchalantly onto the growing pile outside.

"Can't wait till my turn comes," said Rayburn, and laughed. Todd figured the man must be feverish, or delirious with terror at the prospect that awaited him. He didn't even recognize Johnson. Didn't ask about him, anyway.

Todd was saved from this terrible situation by a voice behind him. "You need somethin'?"

Todd looked around, hoping the question had been addressed to him. It had been. An assistant – he looked like a seventeen year-old butcher, covered in blood up to his elbows with streaks of the stuff smeared across his brow, his apron seemingly dipped in the stuff – was regarding him with an impatient expression. In reply, Todd simply hefted Johnson in his arms.

"What's his trouble?"

Todd shook his head. "I don't know."

The assistant ran a fleeting glance over Johnson's body. "Don't look like he's an immediate case. I don't see no blood."

"Isn't that for the surgeon to decide?" said Todd, incredulous and angry at the lackadaisical attitude this young man was taking.

But the assistant made a wide, sweeping gesture with his arm, taking in the whole gruesome scene. "You see we've got men here who're gonna get ate up with infection and gangrene unless we get to 'em quick, and others are dyin' before we even know they've come in. This boy's got no blood on him and he's unconscious – that tells me he's prob'ly concussed. He can wait his turn." Then his brow creased as his eyes went to Todd's own head wound, and he muttered "You want to get that looked at, though."

And then he turned and moved away.

Todd's jaw clenched in fury. But as he scanned his surroundings once again, trying to find a place to set Johnson down, he reasoned that perhaps this rejection had happened for the best. God only knew what Johnson could catch in here – from his experience in the colony, he knew that this room would rapidly become a disease-ridden pit. Quickly, Todd retreated out the door and headed back across the road running in front of the church, passing groups of men bringing their own wounded to the church, setting a path once again to the blood-soaked cornfield and the farm.

Strong as he was, Todd's arms were beginning to seize up from supporting Johnson so long as he approached the empty farmhouse; but he pushed forward and managed to reach the back door. It was hanging open on its hinges – looters had probably cleaned the place out after the battle. Todd barreled inside and found himself in a large kitchen with a narrow hallway leading into the front of the house. He followed this and breathed in relief when he found the open door of a small downstairs bedroom. This he entered, and grunted as he placed Johnson on the bed.

Todd didn't have any professional medical training; but as a trusty in the colony he'd sometimes been required to patch up an injured guard or inmate when things had gotten out of hand. Now – much as he hated to agree with that odious surgeon's assistant – it did indeed look as though Johnson had suffered a concussion. Todd had seen plenty of those (experienced his own fair share too, come to that). There was no visible bruising; but that could be hidden beneath the lad's hair. Todd placed his hands on Johnson's head to see if he could feel a telltale bump – the boy's hair was unusually soft, he noticed fleetingly – and after exploring the young man's skull, found nothing. If it was a concussion, Todd figured it couldn't be serious. It might be nothing to do with a head wound at all; Johnson might simply have collapsed from the heat. But before leaving the boy to sleep off whatever was ailing him, Todd thought it might be wise to assess any other damage to the best of his meager ability. He began with Johnson's torso – unfastened first his jacket, then his shirt.

And found himself blinking in confusion.

The upper part of Johnson's ribcage was bound, wrapped tight in several layers of linen strips.

_What the hell?..._

An old injury, perhaps? Whatever it was, Todd couldn't determine whether any ribs were broken through all that bulky material. Carefully, he reached around Johnson's back and found where the cloth had been fastened, releasing the binding and unwrapping the fabric, slowly, so as not to aggravate whatever condition Johnson was trying to treat with this contrivance.

When the last layer fell away, Todd froze.

He stood gaping, trying to work out what he was seeing.

_No._

It couldn't be.

_Oh God._

Finally, when he began drawing shaky breaths again and felt he could move, he reached for the fastening of Johnson's trousers, to confirm his discovery.

"Oh _shit_," he hissed aloud.

****************

Todd stood leaning against the doorframe of the farmhouse bedroom, arms crossed, jaw set, his eyes burning into Johnson's motionless form. The sun had gone down – he'd lit a lamp, and its steady flame created a quiet glow in the room, throwing soft shadows against the plaster walls. Anyone walking in at that moment might find it a tranquil scene – totally unaware of the raging wrath that was consuming Todd's mind.

He could kill the sodding wretch.

Thinking back over the last month since he'd joined the regiment, he couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before. The hairless chin, the reedy voice – He, Rayburn, and MacMullen had shared a tent with this person for weeks, for God's sake. It stupefied and infuriated him…

Johnson stirred – green eyes fluttered open, stared about the room in confusion – settled on Todd, without really focusing.

"Where am I?" Johnson asked weakly.

Todd ground his teeth, trying to contain himself. "I take it," he said calmly, "your first name ain't Gerald."

Johnson's forehead crinkled. Todd wasn't sure whether his words had registered yet. Blinking, the wounded soldier kept looking about, taking in the simple room: the plain white walls, the drawn curtains, the crude wooden floorboards…the bedside table, the lamp, and the neatly-wound linen wrappings, lying innocently at the corner nearest the bed.

Johnson blanched and sprang back on seeing that, as though the immobile fabric were a coiled snake – scrambled backwards in the bed, sat panting against the headboard. "What – Todd? – what – "

"I don't like liars, Johnson," Todd growled. "If that's even your real name."

The soldier regarded Todd for another few moments – jaw working silently as though trying to form a response but constantly changing it – and finally gave up, head falling forward with a resigned sigh. "It is my real name," came the quiet answer.

"And your first name?"

A long, tense hesitation before the barely audible reply:

"Mary."

"Who else knows?"

"No one."

Todd drew a long, deep, steadying breath. "What the hell," he said, "are you doing _here_?"

Long moments passed before the answer came. "I was tellin' the truth about my brother," Johnson began softly. "We lost our parents to the fever and then he wanted to enlist, and I enlisted with him. Obviously couldn't do that as a woman. So I cut my hair and wrapped up my bosoms and that was it. Eddie really was killed at Gaines's Mill, and after that I just stayed on in the service."

"Why?"

Johnson laughed bitterly. "Where the hell else was I supposed to go?"

In the face of this girl's simple confession – and her lack of options outside of soldiering – Todd found his anger slipping away, despite his desire to keep his jaws fastened on it. "You're obviously not sixteen."

Johnson shook her head. "Twenty-two. I figured I could pass at least for a sixteen year-old boy." She looked up at Todd then, meeting his eyes directly for the first time, and asked quietly, "You gonna give me away?"

Todd thought for a moment. If this woman's true identity were discovered, who knew what might happen to her. She might, at the very least, be arrested for enlisting in the military under a fraudulent identity; and then what would become of her? "No," he answered.

Johnson sighed deeply, her eyes closing in relief. "Thank you."

"But you're goin' home first thing tomorrow," Todd added. "Battlefield's no place for a woman."

At this, Johnson's head snapped up, her green eyes flashing like burnished emeralds in the dimness. "No place?" she repeated – and her voice was full of a fire Todd had never heard when he'd known her as a soft-spoken young boy. "No place…I've fought in this regiment since it was mustered. I've seen grown men scream like little girls in the face of artillery fire while I pressed on. I've seen men run from the field shitting themselves in terror while I walked right into Yankee gunfire; I've seen men desert and wished I could be the one to put a bullet in their stinkin' yellow backs. I've stayed in the front line when men were scramblin' to get to the back. I've killed my share o' bluebellies hand-to-hand when men's knees buckle with cowardice. No place?..." She shook her head. "This is the only place I ever felt worth somethin', like I was really doin' somethin' that meant anything. This is my life. And I'm damn good at it."

Todd was struck speechless. Not only by the logic and passion of the woman's words – for they were true; he'd witnessed her battle prowess with his own eyes; and now, thinking back, he understood why he'd never suspected her ruse. She fought like a man, bravely and boldly and without apology, not once shirking her duty or shrinking back from the fray but always to the fore of the fight.

But that was not the only thing that robbed him of the ability to form a response. His heart had been gripped as she spoke, because her stubbornness and the fire of her temper reminded him of someone.

If Mary Johnson had dark eyes and long red tresses, it might as well have been Nellie Lovett sitting before him.

His breath caught, and he turned away.

"'Sides," Johnson's voice sounded again, calmer now: "what the hell would I live on if I went back home? Here, I've got food and clothin' and a regular pay, and a roof over my head. Even if it _is_ a canvas roof. And if I can keep this up till the war's over, I might even have a chance at a pension…"

Todd heard the words; but he wasn't really listening anymore. Because suddenly his mind was filled with one image that repeated itself over and over and would not be dismissed: Nellie Lovett, leaning against the trunk of a massive willow tree, her eyes closed, and his hand gently brushing a soft red tendril from her cheek…

Lost. Gone.

What would happen to this young woman if he insisted that she leave the regiment? What was left to her at home? She'd lost everything as well – her entire family. Where could she find support? Todd didn't like to think what she might be reduced to in order to survive from one day to the next…he knew all too well what befell women without a family, who had to make their own way…

"_What did you do, Nellie?"_

"_When?"_

"_After Albert was gone and the shop went down. How did you live?"_

_She didn't respond right away. That was fine. He already suspected the answer; he just wanted to hear her say it. Till then it was pleasant enough to lie here in silence, in darkness, twining her hair in his fingers, drinking in the feeling of her in his arms._

_Finally she sighed. "Well," she said casually, her fingertips slowly tracing the contours of his bicep. "A little o' this, a little o' that. Run up a great soddin' load o' debt, I can tell you that." She nestled closer to him, and he felt her smile against his bare chest. "That's almost all gone now, though, love."_

_Taking time to answer was one thing – blatant avoidance was another. He pulled away, just enough to prop himself on one elbow, his other hand resting on the mattress on her other side, bracing her between his arms; and he leaned over her, finding her shining eyes in the dark. "What did you do, Eleanor?" he asked again – the words slow and pronounced though quiet, spoken in a tone that would not accept evasion._

"_Why's it so bloody important?" She was flustered now; he could hear it in her voice._

"_Because I want to know."_

"_It were a long time ago, Sweeney," she said dismissively._

_He bared his teeth in the sneer he sometimes wore in their moments of levity, and his voice was light as he said, "I told you how I survived those fifteen years, but you won't return the favor? I don't think that's quite fair, my dear." _

_But apparently she did not find his attempt at humor amusing. She did not reply with her customary banter. In fact, she attempted to squirm away from him, saying "For God's sake, Mr. T, I never knew anyone so bloody obsessed with the past…as if your own weren't bad enough, now you gotta start in on mine – "_

_He shifted his weight, pinning her down, preventing her from escaping though she continued to uselessly struggle against him. "Where d'you think you're goin', pet?" he asked, in the same dark, playful growl he'd first adopted with her when he'd told her he'd come again when she had Judge on the menu. "It's rude to walk away in the middle of a conversation."_

"_Oh!" she exclaimed, clearly exasperated. "Fine then. Hope it makes you bleedin' happy."_

_She stopped wriggling about and went limp, panting from her efforts to get away – and turned her head, facing away from him as she spoke. "Did favors every now and then."_

"_Favors?"_

_She swallowed. "Yeah. For men. Who paid me."_

_It was enough. He was silent, gazing down at her, feeling something he couldn't define creep into his heart – it felt as if the affection he always felt for her of late was deepening and widening; but he couldn't say why._

"_Well it's not like I were a common streetwalker," she said, with sudden vehemence, as if protesting some offensive remark from him though he hadn't spoken a word. "And you're not in danger o' catchin' the clap, if that's what you're worried about."_

_In truth, that particular thought hadn't yet crossed his mind. But he appreciated the assurance, nonetheless…_

"_I'm not ashamed," she said loftily. "Give me enough to live on, kept me from starvin' and goin' naked and freezin' to death. Did what I had to, to get by. Just…never wanted you findin' out, is all."_

"_Why not, if you aren't ashamed?"_

_She sighed. "Thought you'd think differently of me if you knew."_

_She was right. He did think differently of her – though not at all in the way she feared. He might have been repulsed by such an admission a lifetime ago – but innocent Benjamin Barker hadn't had an inkling of the harsh realities of life in this city, of what good people could be reduced to. He'd learned much since then. Sweeney Todd knew that virtue – a lovely ideal, to be sure – could prove too costly for those smashed under the jackboot heel of abject need. _

Turning beauty into filth and greed…

_That's what he'd told Anthony Hope when he'd set foot on London ground for the first time in fifteen years, trying to do the lad a favor by telling him what this city really was. That was what this place excelled at – taking beauty and twisting it, putting it at the service of men full of all manner of abased lusts. How was that Lovett's fault?...She was just as much a victim of this world as he was. _

_Anger burned in his gut, yes – but it wasn't for her. It was for those men, because they'd used her like animals. God only knew what depraved cravings they'd asked her to satisfy…and he had no doubt that they'd hurt her and hadn't cared – quite the opposite, they'd likely enjoyed it. His mind churned with images of getting them into his chair…oh, how he would relish that: he could see their faces even now, feel the weight of the knife, see the horror in their eyes, feel the hot blood coursing over his hands…He'd carve them like the beasts they were and serve them to her on a platter…_

"_Look at me." _

_She didn't._

"Look _at me, Eleanor."_

_Her face turned toward him, but her eyes darted about for a while before finally settling on his. He scanned her features – she seemed to grow more beautiful by the day, somehow – and was suddenly overcome by a feeling he hadn't known for nearly two decades…something he'd only ever felt for his wife, and later, his little girl._

_Protectiveness._

_It startled him, the resurgence of this long-forgotten desire to provide security for another. It wasn't like the obligatory sense of rendering protection from his days as a trusty – he wanted to protect this woman because…he simply _wanted_ to, deeply, from the core of his being. He'd long considered her a refuge from his ceaseless anguish of spirit; but now, he was surprised to find that he wanted to be a refuge to her._

_Judging by the gasp she uttered as he drew her close in his arms, she hadn't been expecting this reaction from him. But she clung to him nonetheless; and he buried his face in her soft hair, redolent with the scent of cinnamon and herbs, and murmured, "You never have to do that again. You got me now."_

He half-turned – not quite ready to face Johnson again just yet – and muttered, "If anyone finds out, it won't be from me."

He heard her sigh "Thank you" at his back.

Managing to pull himself together, he added, "We ought to get back to the regiment. D'you think you can walk now?"

"Oh, sure."

He heard a rustling, indicating, he supposed, the Johnson was tentatively moving about.

"Todd?"

He turned, and saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor.

"I think you oughta take that promotion."

His brow furrowed. "Promotion?"

She smiled. "It's all over the regiment. Everybody knows the lieutenant offered you a field commission."

Todd grunted. "I turned it down. I wouldn't make a good officer."

"I don't think that's true," said Johnson quietly. "There are soldiers in this regiment who'd follow you anywhere, into anything. Who'd die for you."

Then she said, in a tone that went right through to the marrow of Todd's bones: "I know I would."

*****************

"I heard he's seven foot tall, with red eyes and every tooth in his head sharp and pointy, like fangs."

"I heard he can't be killed. Heard he took a bullet straight between the eyes at Bull Run and kept marching."

"Well, I heard he took the full force of a cannon blast earlier today and he's still breathing."

"I heard just looking at him can paralyze a man."

"Hey Ragg."

Toby looked up.

"Didn't you see him close up once?"

Under other circumstances, Toby might have laughed at the hilarious irony of that statement. Now, he only nodded once and turned away. He wanted no part of this conversation.

"I heard he got right up on you at Bull Run. Almost captured the colors."

"D'you think it's really true that he drinks the blood of the men he kills?"

Maintaining a perfectly humorless face, Toby said sagely, "I think it's more likely he eats their flesh instead."

The corporals' jaws dropped collectively, and some of them paled.

And then it all started again – in hushed tones, as though the men feared the great scourge of the Confederacy himself were hiding in the bushes and might overhear. "I heard…"

Toby's companions went on and on as they warmed their coffee at the fire and chewed painfully on their salt pork, and Toby ignored them. Sweeney Todd had begun haunting his nightmares all too often since Toby had seen him through the battle-smoke on the field near Manassas Junction. Thank God the First Rhode Island hadn't encountered the First Texas here, hard by Antietam Creek – it was bad enough now, as it was, sitting here on the fringe of the Confederate army like a great watchdog. Even at this distance, Toby could see the Rebel campfires, and that meant Todd was too close for his liking. If the barber's eyes had landed on Toby in recognition that day, he thought he just might have risked being shot by the captain in order to get the hell away as far and as fast as possible.

But then…there was another consideration. Something that drove him to conquer his childish fear.

Toby almost hoped he _would_ encounter Todd face to face again. As far as he was concerned, there was unfinished business between them.

_He couldn't leave her with that lunatic. What the hell was he thinking?...The madman might have slit her throat by now. Back Toby ran through the sewer once again, re-tracing his path – hoping he wasn't taking wrong turns in his blind rush to put distance between himself and that foul cavern of hell. His nerve nearly failed him at the thought of returning to that place; but for her sake…_

_He'd bloody kill the bastard. With his own hands, if need be._

_He reached familiar territory, and stopped, trying to get his breath. Looking up, he saw the grate he'd climbed through – at least, he hoped it was the same one. He hoisted himself up the metal rungs embedded in the stone sewer wall, and when he pushed the grate open and peeked above the level of the floor, he saw that he was indeed in the right place._

_Placing his hands on the floor, he lifted himself up and out of the hole. Neither Mr. Todd nor Mrs. Lovett were anywhere to be seen. Slowly, glancing around the ominous black-orange space, to the deep shadows gathered in the corners like living things, making sure none of them stirred – terrified that the crazed barber would emerge from one at any moment – Toby crawled across the cold, wet stone. There was a woman lying dead, her throat slit cleanly – he recognized her as the same beggar he'd had to throw out of the shop at Mrs. Lovett's order, several times. The same woman who'd grabbed him on the night of the grand opening and told him to run and get the police. "City on fire," how clever…_

_Funny. The only person who suspected a thing and no one listened, because she was mad._

_Perhaps they were all mad._

_Well, no wonder she'd ended up dead if she kept snooping round. Todd wouldn't have put up with any threat for very long. _

_But something else caught Toby's eye then. He hadn't noticed it at first; but from his position now he could see the light of the bake oven winking brightly on something only a foot from his left hand. Turning his full attention on it, he saw that it was one of Todd's razors._

_Knowing now what purpose that blade had served, Toby's stomach churned. But at the same time there was a dark attraction, a sense of vindictive triumph within him: the deadly terror was at rest now, just another innocent tool of trade outside of its master's hand. He crawled over to it – reached out anxiously, as though it might leap up and cut him of its own accord – touched it…It was cool and smooth, but the intricate pattern engraved in the handle felt awkward, and he wondered how Todd had been able to get a solid grip on the thing when he did shave men legitimately. _

_Toby's fingers closed around the handle – gingerly, at first; then bolder – hefted its weight, held it up to the light and admired the keen brilliance of the blade. He began to understand the barber's fascination – he felt as though he was holding naked power in his hand. _

_Then he folded the knife closed and slipped it into his pocket._

_He couldn't have said exactly why he did this. Perhaps it was out of some sense of victory – taking something from the man who'd taken everything from others…robbing him of the thing that had given him his power._

_He'd just done something absolutely forbidden, and he knew it. Bald fear covered his heart at the thought, and somewhere in his mind he fancied that the murderer was on his way down the stairs right now; that somehow the razor was calling out to him and he was responding, coming to reclaim it…_

_Toby decided that his Mrs. Lovett could be helped best by his fetching the constables after all. He returned to the sewer, making sure to close the grate behind him._

Toby directed his mind to the inside pocket of his handsome blue, red-piped artillery jacket, aware of the weight of the object secreted there.

_Someday soon,_ he thought.

* * *

**A/N:** Antietam/Sharpsburg remains to this day the bloodiest single day in American history. Total casualties for both sides amounted to more than 22,000 men, with a quarter of the Union army lost or rendered incapacitated and an even greater number for the Confederates. I've been to this battlefield and it was a very moving experience. Probably the most intense area is called the Sunken Road. A large number of Confederates took up a position there, sort of using the dip in the ground as a trench for cover, and northern units came along and just slaughtered them like ducks in a pen. It is quite the experience to walk along that road.

And a BIG SURPRISE about Johnson, eh? Actually, many women did exactly what Johnson is doing. It's known that about 400 women disguised themselves as men to fight in the Civil War - maybe many more, whose secret was never discovered. They may have been buried on the battlefield without anyone ever knowing...Some women were found out when they were wounded...or pregnant! =O But some kept the disguise going till the war ended. Some even appealed to the Congress for their pensions, and their request was granted. Occasionally, the men in a regiment knew that one of their comrades was a woman and said nothing because she was a dang good soldier.

Anyway - I hope this chapter was all right. Not my best work, I think. **Please review!** Thanks for reading :)


	12. Betrayal

**Disclaimers:** See ch. 1

**A/N:** Uh...hi there :/ I am SO SORRY this update has taken so long. I've been dealing with a lot of things lately and haven't had much time or mental capacity to write. I simply haven't had the gumption to work on this chapter very much at all. And I'm still not happy with the final result - but I'll let you be the judges. I can pretty much guarantee that the next chapter will not be so long in coming, though. Thanks for reading, and for not forgetting about this story :)

* * *

**12**

**Betrayal.**

She didn't know what woke her. She lay still at first, listening – one of the denizens of the house moving about late? mice in the wainscot? – but all was silent. Perhaps she'd been awakened by a dream she couldn't now recall.

The sound did not repeat itself, though she listened intently for two or three minutes; and she shrugged it off. But just as she closed her eyes again, she felt something at her back – an intangible pressure, as though the air had congealed and was pressing cold against the skin of her shoulder blades.

Someone was in the room.

Nellie stopped breathing. The feeling – that unmistakable sensation of being watched – could simply be a lingering vestige of whatever dream had awakened her…It couldn't be Beaumont – his code of southern gentlemanly conduct prevented him from entering a woman's room at any time, let alone the dead of night, unless he was engaged to her. Hattie, perhaps?...But what could the maid think so urgent that it couldn't wait till sunrise?...Could one of the slaves be a thief?...A small voice in Nellie's mind whispered that it wasn't likely a stranger – who would go so far out of the way to ransack a house in the countryside when there were plenty of easily-accessible cities to loot? – but years of living on Fleet Street had taught her caution. One never knew what lengths desperate men might go to...

Whoever it was, Nellie certainly didn't like keeping her back to the room. Lest the intruder panic on seeing that she'd discovered him, she affected to turn over in her sleep, keeping her eyelids slitted open. Her awareness that she was not alone only increased, though in the near-pitch black she could see nothing.

And then a floorboard creaked.

That confirmed it – this was no echo of a dream.

She sat bolt upright at the sound – she'd be damned if she was going to just lie there while this bloke did whatever he wanted, to the room or to her person – and said, her voice loud and harsh as it sliced through the stillness, "Right. Who is it? Who's there?"

No answer came, but the sense of another presence remained strong.

"I've got a pair o' sewin' shears in my hand," she lied – and realized, too late, that in her consternation her natural way of speaking had returned. "If you don't belong in this house I suggest you move on. If you do, identify yourself this instant!"

But it wasn't the intruder's name that sounded softly in the dark. It was hers.

"Nellie?..."

Her entire being went still, as though that voice had turned her to stone – a cold marble skin stretched over a hollow core. Her insides had melted away, it seemed; her heart stopped like a ticking watch shattered by the hammer of that voice. Because she knew it, intimately – it haunted her, sleeping and waking.

She began to tremble, so cold that she was certain she'd see the cloud of her breath as she whispered, "Sweeney Todd…"

His only reply was to draw silently closer to her bedside. His footfalls sounded, somehow, further away than they actually were. But how the blazes had he gotten here, and why? Had he come to kill her at last?...how the hell had he found her?!...

"What…what're you doin' here?" she managed through her lingering shock – her heart had started again with a vengeance, and the words came out in a breathless rush.

"I was hurt," he said tonelessy, his voice hollow – like the voice of a corpse, if the dead could speak. He was standing right at the edge of the mattress now, the silvered moonlight falling across his face, white as the sheets she lay on, illuminating his military jacket, stained black with what she thought at first was shadow; but she saw as he stepped closer that it could only be blood. Nellie's flesh crawled in revulsion and fear at his nearness – she hadn't forgotten his cruel deception and malevolent intentions for her future – and in the same instant her body ached for his touch, trembled with hope and longing that he was so close; her eyes gorged themselves on the sight of his face…it had been so long, so long…She was glad of the darkness, for it hid the flush she felt sweeping over her skin. Whether it bloomed out of rage or hate or desire, she couldn't tell. Perhaps all three at once.

"Hurt?" she snapped, as elation and panic and fury battled in her mind. She couldn't understand why she wasn't pulling the rope by the bedpost to summon her maid – who would in turn summon Marcus, who would personally see Todd thrown out.

He nodded – and as he moved his head Nellie noticed a dark patch at his left temple. His hair on that side was even wilder and more tangled than its usual state. "It was a cannon blast," he said simply.

"A cannon blast," Nellie hissed, her eyes narrowing. "No cannon can do what you'll get from me. I could kill you with my bare hands for what you did to me…you _bastard_" – the words came ragged and hot and shuddering, and burning tears were needling the backs of her eyes. "_Hurt_, were you?…D'you even have the first idea of _how you hurt me_?"

His brows contracted, and he swallowed hard. "Yes," he whispered.

"And you come in here expectin' sympathy from me? How dare you? I oughta turn you in, you bleedin'…Get out – "

The last word quavered and faded when she felt his hand on her face – his fingertips feathering the soft wisps of hair at her temple, tracing the shell of her ear, trailing along her jaw, down her neck, along her collarbones – there was something in his touch like a little shock, like the sharp jolt that went through her when she touched metal in winter; and it was melting her anger, soothing her, in spite of herself, threatening to make her forget the deep and still-bleeding pain he'd caused her…

– Her eyes snapped open to a room bathed in early morning sunlight.

She was shaking, fighting for her breath as though she'd been running to save her very life – the bedclothes were soaked and her skin filmed with icy sweat…her hands were painfully cramped, and she realized that she was gripping the twisted sheets in fistfuls. She could still feel him, his presence, surrounding her, filling the room.

A dream. Another bloody dream.

Forcing herself to draw deep, calming draughts of the soft morning air that drifted through her open windows and billowed the curtains, Nellie kept her eyes open except for the absolute necessity of blinking, for fear that even the minutest sliver of darkness would bring his image before her again. At length her muscles relaxed and she regained control over her breath; but she lay still for some time, thinking.

She knew the reason for these dreams – this hadn't been the first. They came simply because she knew that Sweeney bloody Todd was here. Well – not _here_, amidst the vast cotton fields of Elysium – but here in America. He'd crossed the same ocean she had, and had somehow ended up in the Confederate army (at that thought, she rolled her eyes and decided not to even attempt to reason out that particular detail, it was so outlandish); and was even now, at this very moment, marching off to somewhere…Nellie's knowledge of American geography was limited to say the least; but she couldn't help feeling that he was closer than any map might say. Close enough to touch – as in her dream.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

Day after day she perused the Milledgeville newspaper, to see if she could catch his name. Day after day she scanned the notices, the names of those who'd gone missing, who'd been killed in action. She was never sure whether she wanted to find his name among them, or not.

Sometimes she could put him out of her mind altogether. Sometimes she smiled at the thought of him getting his evil ruddy head blown off by a cannon.

And then at other times an awesome fear seized her heart and stole her breath. Fear that he _would_ get his head blown off – or worse, that he'd get captured, end up in a prison camp.

She heaved a deep and heavy sigh. "Bugger," she said to the ceiling. She rubbed her hands over her face with an air of resignation. From previous experience with these dreams she knew that she could dismiss the whole thing in a few moments, wash it away with the morning's first cup of tea; she was confident that it would all fade completely as the day went on...except, perhaps, for the little detail of Todd's head wound. She had a feeling that was going to stay with her for quite some time. Damn, but that had been _vivid_ – she had seen the tackiness of the blood, _smelled_ it on him…None of the dreams had been that real so far.

She wondered.

Then she chuckled at herself. "Blimey, Nell, pull yourself together," she muttered as she rolled to her side to get out of bed.

A soft knock at her door sent her reaching for her dressing-gown, draped over the back of a chair by the bedside table. As she leaned forward, she spotted beside her lamp the folded newspaper she'd been reading before retiring the previous evening; and when she saw it something clicked in her mind. "Is that you, Hattie?" she called out absently, her eyes still on the paper.

"Yes, ma'am," came the muffled reply.

"Come in, then."

The knob turned, and the old black maid shuffled into the room with "Good mornin'" on her lips and Nellie's customary cup of tea in her hand.

"Yes, good morning…"

"Shall I lay out a dress for you, Miss Nellie?" Hattie asked, handing Nellie the tea and, as though anticipating an affirmative response, already moving to the wardrobe.

"Mmm," Nellie answered, by way of complimenting the tea and addressing Hattie's question at the same time. "The green one please, Hattie." Curious, she picked up the newspaper and took it and the tea to the window seat.

"Oh, that green dress sure looks fine on you, Miss Templeton. It sets off your fiery head."

Nellie chuckled, and watched the old woman arrange the garments with precise care at the foot of the bed. She and the house slave had become quite friendly during their brief stay in Charleston. Nellie had intended this as a strategic move at first; but getting to know Hattie revealed a resilient woman, a strong woman hardened by life and unrewarded labor, who had seen just about everything and managed not only to remain sane, but to somehow maintain a sense of humor. Nellie quite liked her.

"Cap'n Beaumont, he says join him and Miss Minerva for breakfast," said Hattie.

Nellie turned, brow furrowed. "Have they started already?"

"No ma'am; but by the time you get dressed the coffee'll just be settin' on the table."

Nellie nodded and returned her attention to the newspaper. It hadn't taken long for her to find what she was looking for – she was staring at a bold headline, halfway down the front page, announcing the latest Confederate victory in Maryland, at a town called Sharpsburg. She recalled reading this very article last night: it was a short piece, an initial wire report without much detail. It only said that the CS army, after bitter and costly fighting, had beaten the Union forces from the field. It also said, however, that the southerners were moving back into Virginia. That didn't sound like much of a victory to Nellie; but then she didn't even pretend to comprehend military strategy. Ah well, she thought – at least that explained the dream. She'd read about a battle, and her dreaming mind had combined that information with the frequent appearances of the barber. Well, she thought as she tossed the paper onto the window seat with a sigh, that would be the last time she read the news right before going to bed.

Sipping on her tea and willing herself to forget the entire incident, she directed her eyes to the great bow window and the colorful gardens below, hoping to find a distraction. Slaves were moving about among the flower beds, tending to the plants and fountains and white gravel walks.

"You want me to draw you a bath this mornin', Miss Nellie?"

"Oh – no, Hattie, not this morning. Perhaps later."

"All right. You need anythin' else?"

Keeping her eyes focused on the slaves in the garden, her finger thoughtfully tracing the rim of her teacup, Nellie asked softly, "Is Captain Beaumont a kind master, Hattie?"

"Oh," said the slave, sounding a bit surprised by the question. "I s'pose so, Miss Nellie. He's a sight better than some others I hear tell of, anyway." She paused in her task of laying Nellie's corset on the coverlet and straightened, hands on her hips in a thoughtful pose. "I guess if we got our freedom tomorrow, and Cap'n Beaumont asked us to stay on and give us a real pay, I'd stay with him." She finished with a brisk nod. "Yes ma'am, I reckon I would."

Nellie's eyes narrowed. "You realize you can't have it both ways? You gain your freedom only if the North wins the war; and in that case the captain is very likely to lose this plantation."

"Yes ma'am…well, I don't know what I'd do then. I'm an old woman; where would I go?..."

"What's your opinion of his sister?" Nellie asked casually, eager now to change the subject.

Hattie didn't answer right away. "Well," she said slowly, "it ain't my place now, Miss Nellie…"

"Oh tosh," Nellie said lightly, settling onto the window seat, hoping the relaxed posture would invite a confidence. "You know I won't give you away, Hattie dear."

The older woman looked up with a dubious expression, seeming to consider whether she ought to speak. Then, apparently making up her mind, she purposefully strode to the window and seated herself before Nellie, leaning close and speaking in a hushed, rapid tone, as though Beaumont's sister might be concealed under the bed.

"The cap'n, he's a good man," Hattie said. "When folks get too old to work the fields, he always finds 'em a place here in the house."

Nellie raised an eyebrow. "Did you used to work the fields as well, then?"

"Oh yes ma'am," Hattie replied – and stretched out her gnarled hands. Nellie saw there the same white hatch-marks that criss-crossed the hands of Caesar and the other field workers she'd seen.

"What causes those marks?"

"Cotton," the slave answered. "Cotton's got nettles, you know. Can't avoid 'em, they tear you up somethin' awful. The cap'n, he understands all that. But Miss Minerva…I only hear things, bein' household staff and travelin' with the cap'n. I'm never here when his sister's in charge, and I thank the good Lord for it. What I hear, folks was just prayin' for the cap'n to get back from Charleston. Miss Minerva, she let that overseer Stone do whatever he wanted. Why, I hear tell she stood out on the porch and watched him beat a man within an inch of his life and didn't make a peep to stop him."

"She can't be happy about Stone getting fired, then," Nellie remarked casually.

"She's even less happy a slave replaced him. But she can't do nothin', 'cause old Major Beaumont, the cap'n's father, his last will an' testament put the cap'n in charge, not her."

"Do you think Minerva is jealous of her brother?"

Looking extremely displeased with herself, Hattie shook her head vigorously and hissed "Now I shouldn't've said nothin'!" as she rose hastily and headed for the door, grumbling to herself all the way.

But Nellie stood gazing after her for a long while, smiling softly. "You didn't say a word, Hattie dear," she murmured. "You didn't say anything at all."

*****************

Breakfast that morning was certainly one of the more interesting meals Nellie had ever partaken. With the exception, of course, of the time she'd asked Mr. Todd to test her new meat pie recipe.

The captain sat at the head of the table, with his sister on his right and Nellie on his left, and wearing an expression that advertised a barely-contained temper. His face was flushed and his jaw worked stiffly as he forced his food down his throat. His sister was rather enjoying his discomfort, judging by the smug smirk playing about her lips and the self-satisfied glimmer in her eyes. Nellie found the man's simmering rage rather endearing, and determined to focus her attention on him rather than on the conversation taking place between Beaumont and his sister – who hadn't so much as acknowledged Nellie's presence since she'd entered the room that morning.

It all began when Minerva calmly said "Stone is still laid up," and daintily sipped her coffee.

"Mm," grunted Nathan past a mouthful of eggs. Nellie suspected he'd crammed so much food in order to avoid engaging his sister in conversation; and she lifted her teacup to her lips to hide her smile.

"You must have thrashed him pretty soundly," Minerva went on.

"He certainly did."

Minerva's hands halted in the midst of slicing into her potatoes. Nathan, equally frozen with a strip of bacon halfway to his open mouth, was gaping at Nellie with what appeared to be a confused mix of shock and admiration. She had, in fact, surprised even herself with her sudden and unsolicited interjection; and she cleared her throat and quietly said, "Do forgive me."

Minerva, whose eyes had never left her plate, did not look up at Nellie now, even as she said, "You approve of my brother's actions?"

Nellie realized then that her voice must have carried a hint of praise – even of pride. "Well," she said brightly, "I certainly think the blo – the man had it coming. You didn't see the fellow he'd beaten, after all." And then, incapable of restraining herself, she added innocently, "Or did you?"

Then Minerva's head turned, slowly, like the head of a giant bird of prey, and her cold gray eyes landed on Nellie. "I am not unaware of what transpires on this plantation," she said. "You're not expected to understand, being a foreigner; but believe me when I say that negroes need to be shown their place if they're to stay in it." She turned her gaze back to her brother. "Putting a darkie in Stone's place? Soon we'll have another Harper's Ferry, dear brother, right here at Elysium."

"It has been my experience," said the captain, not looking at his sister, "that loyalty and good work results from decent treatment."

"Occasionally, beasts of burden need to be whipped."

Nathan looked up so quickly, Nellie wondered his neck didn't snap. "You treat slaves far worse than animals, Minerva."

"And you treat them like white men, Nathan, and it's unnatural. 'Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, as unto Christ.' Ephesians, chapter six, verse five. Slave and master are the order of creation, divinely sanctioned."

Nathan met her eyes then, and squared his shoulders; and in a voice full of quiet confidence he said, "'And ye masters, do the same things unto them, forbearing threatening: knowing that your Master also is in heaven; neither is there respect of persons with him.' From the same letter, dear sister, chapter six, verse nine."

"'Let as many servants as are under the yoke,'" Minerva parried, "'count their own masters worthy of all honor, that the name of God and his doctrine be not blasphemed.' First Timothy, chapter six, verse one."

Nellie's head was beginning to spin. It had been countless ages since she'd cracked the spine of a Bible (long before Albert had passed, at any rate…_How long has it been, anyhow?...since before Mr. Barker was arrested, anyway..._); but clearly her hosts knew what they were doing. Anticipating a counter-thrust from Nathan, her eyes shifted to him and she was not disappointed. "'Masters, give unto your servants that which is just and equal.' Colossians, chapter four, verse one."

Nellie felt rather like applauding him.

Simpering in a triumph she clearly did not yet possess, Minerva said, with a trace of suppressed laughter in her voice, "The Apostle never advises masters to _free_ their slaves, however, does he? In fact, he sends the runaway slave Onesimus back to his master. He certainly doesn't have him educated and aid him in his escape."

At this, Nathan, glaring daggers, rose slowly and placed his hands on the table's edge, leaning towards his sister and pronouncing every word quietly but with a crisp tang of wrath: "'And the Lord said, I have surely seen the affliction of my people which are in Egypt, and have heard their cry by reason of their taskmasters; for I know their sorrows; and I am come down to deliver them.' Exodus, chapter three, verses seven and eight."

Minerva, utterly unfazed, narrowed her eyes at him and said, "You sound more and more like a Yankee abolitionist every day. You're a disgrace to our ancestors, Nathan! If Papa could hear you he'd turn in his grave!"

"Papa knew my views when he drew up his will," said Nathan, wearing a cold, wicked smile that Nellie had never seen from him before. She felt suddenly as though her heart missed a beat. Then, his eyes still fixed on his sister, he unexpectedly said "Nellie."

So stunned was she to suddenly hear her name in the midst of this family altercation, Nellie started as though physically struck. She hoped he wasn't about to ask her to give an opinion on some point of the argument – or worse, to add to the bandying of Bible verses – and could only stare at him mutely. But he only asked, "Would you be very kind and join me in my study? There are some things I'd like to discuss with you."

He hadn't looked at her once; and when he finally broke eye contact with his sister, he simply left the room.

A long, stiff silence descended. Finally Nellie drained her teacup and said "Well. Mustn't keep the captain waiting," and rose to leave.

"No indeed," said Minerva, addressing her near-empty plate. "He's very fond of you."

Feigning innocence, Nellie lowered her lashes demurely and said "Oh come now."

Minerva kept her eyes averted from Nellie's and stabbed at her remaining food. "Don't pretend you haven't noticed. It's clear that his interest in you is more than professional."

"Is it now," said Nellie quietly.

Minerva looked up and fastened angry eyes on Nellie. "You might get away with playing innocent with Nathan, but it won't work with me. I don't trust you. I don't know what you're trying to accomplish here, but I plan to find out; and when I do, you'll be finished here. Now go."

Nellie wasn't about to allow this woman to dismiss her like a servant; but neither did she wish to keep Nathan waiting any longer than necessary, not with the mood his sister's antagonism had likely put him in. As a compromise, she lingered to reach for the teapot, pour out another cup with excruciating slowness, adorn it with sugar and milk, and take a long drink. When Minerva raised her eyes with a look that clearly questioned Nellie's continued presence, Nellie merely winked at her and sauntered slowly from the room, carrying the teacup with her.

"Bloody great cow," she muttered under her breath as she sped through the house on her way to the study. But Minerva's words kept echoing in her mind; and she wondered what the woman was up to. Did she truly suspect Nellie, was she really going to carry out her threat and dog Nellie's steps, snoop about until she discovered her true purpose in this house? Might it be possible that she had slaves loyal to her, who would act as her eyes and ears? Or was Minerva merely issuing baseless threats out of pure dislike? Might she be more dangerous to the mission than Nellie had previously given her credit for? Nellie realized, as she approached the open study door, that she might have more to contend with than simply gaining the captain's confidence. She may now need to glance over her shoulder for his sister as well – and, perhaps, for Minerva's own spies…

At the moment, however, Nellie needed to devote her attention to whatever Beaumont wanted. So she locked these thoughts away for later examination and breezed into the study –

Her breath hitched. For a heart-shattering instant – it must, she told herself later, have been a clinging remnant of her dream – she could have sworn it was Sweeney Todd standing before her: staring out the window, his back to the door, hands clasped at the small of his back, his very silhouette tense as a cat ready to pounce, nearly solid black against the bright light beyond the panes.

"_D'you know what her name means?...'Lucy'?..."_

He seemed lost in his own head, completely unaware of her entrance. Nellie collected herself (_"You're in Georgia, stupid nit, not on Fleet Street; this is Nathan, not Todd, not Todd"_) and cleared her throat softly – whether more to get Beaumont's attention or to shake herself away from this troublesome rift in reality, she wasn't sure – and after a moment's hesitation he turned. He blinked at first, looking confused, as though he didn't know why she was there. Then he smiled thinly and came around the desk, hands outstretched. "Nellie," he said, his voice a mixture of relief and weariness. "Thank you for coming."

"Well you did ask," she replied, squeezing one of his hands in greeting. She then settled into one of the comfortable armchairs and placed her now-unwanted tea on a side table.

Nathan took the chair facing her. "Well now," he began, rubbing his eyes with his thumbs. "I'll get right to it. I need to know if your uncle has considered my proposal."

"He has indeed," she answered. "He's prepared to provide the blockade runners you've asked for; though of course the iron-plated ships of war will require more time and cost."

"Of course."

"He's most intrigued by your idea for the underwater boat."

Nathan's eyes narrowed, and a small, almost mischievous smile curled the corners of his lips.

"You do realize, Nathan," Nellie went on, "that such a vessel will be most difficult to arm."

"It doesn't need heavy armaments," the captain replied, his voice full of confidence. "It needs to steal close to Yankee ships and sabotage their hulls with explosives. It's silent and invisible; it won't need to defend itself like a regular ironside would."

Nellie nodded slowly. "Well, he's had some plans drawn up and they're on the way for your approval." The she cast her eyes down to the arm of her chair and began idly tracing patterns on its fabric with her fingernail. "There's only one thing standing in the way of his full support."

Nathan looked mildly alarmed. "Oh?"

Her gaze returned to him. "I'm sure you can think what it is."

At that, he sighed heavily and rose, running a hand through his hair as he went back to the window. Nellie waited quite some time for him to speak.

"There's a British army standing at the border of Canada this moment, ready to invade the North. Did you know that?"

"No, I didn't…"

"Between their force and ours, we could crush the Union like a grape. We could end this war in two weeks – or less. The only thing stopping it is our stubborn clinging to a tradition the rest of the civilized world left behind a very long time ago."

"You think slavery is actually preventing the Confederacy from winning the war," Nellie observed, making this connection for the first time and silently browbeating herself for not seeing it before.

"Yes!" he said, so vehemently that she jumped. He gestured to the window. "There's an entire army out there that no one has the sense to see!"

"With respect," Nellie remarked, raising an eyebrow, "I doubt very much that slaves would fight to save the country enslaving them so they could continue as they are."

With a sudden, swift motion, Nathan whirled about and was leaning over the desk, staring hard into Nellie's eyes with fire in his gaze. "But they would," he said, "fight for their freedom."

A picture began forming in Nellie's mind. "Are you trying to free the slaves, Nathan?" she asked quietly.

He spoke excitedly, his words like a string of bullets punching the air. "A year ago, I approached some very high-placed men in Richmond – men with access to President Davis himself – and issued a proposal: open military service to all able-bodied male slaves between the ages of sixteen and sixty. Such men would be manumitted after three years of service."

Nellie couldn't believe what she was hearing. This was coming from Captain Nathan Beaumont – the epitome of southern gentility, defender of the southern way of life. "Set them free in exchange for a term of enlistment in the army?" she said, just to make sure she was understanding him correctly.

He nodded, smiling.

"Well…that seems rather…disruptive," she said. "Wouldn't that deplete the work force on the plantations? Besides which, I can't see black men fighting alongside whites and the whites being happy about it. It would be chaos – you'd have a second war in addition to the one already happening!"

"All-black units could be created. Free blacks and runaway slaves are already joining the Yankees in force, but our numbers are falling! We'll soon run out of men to replace the casualties unless something is done." He huffed in frustration and turned back to the window. "I am trying to win this war. Our precious traditions don't amount to rubbish if we're not a free nation. The promise of emancipation is the only thing that can gain us foreign support – it's the only thing that will send a full British fleet over here, put an end to our reliance on private shipwrights – the only thing that will bring that army down from Canada. It's the only thing that will allow us to trade with other nations when the war is over." Then he added, as though to himself: "The South is going to have to join the rest of the world sooner or later."

"And what about after the slaves' freedom is granted?" Nellie questioned. "What would become of them?"

"They'd be a ready-made labor force, wouldn't they?" Beaumont replied, the excitement returning to his voice. "We could train them, educate them. After this war is won we are going to need to develop industry to rival the North, and former slaves would be perfectly positioned for that transition."

Nellie's heart went out to the man. He was almost naïve, and this was a side of him she'd never expected to see. It was a bit sad, seeing this noble man dreaming of things that could never be, wasting his life clinging to the hope...

Rather like herself, not so very long ago. And – the thought stabbed her like a knife – rather like Benjamin Barker, such a dreamer, such an idealist, always convinced that life could be marvelous if only everyone conformed to his ideas of how they ought to behave.

"This all sounds very idealistic, Nathan," she said sympathetically. "Do you really think that white men would be willing to live and work on an equal level with freed slaves?"

He sighed deeply, as though his very soul was groaning. "You can imagine this hasn't been well received. I've risked everything by proposing this. I've been threatened with the loss of my rank, my property; my family could be turned out of society…"

Nellie's mind went back to the letter she'd found in Beaumont's desk back in Charleston…_ "As your friend, I strongly advise that you abandon this course. If you persist, you risk the loss of your rank, and perhaps very much more. I understand where your true loyalties lie; but others may see your agenda as subversive at best, and traitorous at worst..."_ And it was signed Harrison…"No wonder Minerva isn't happy with you at the moment," she said, beginning to put the pieces together.

Beaumont shook his head. "It was a mistake asking Don for help on this," he said quietly.

"Don?"

"Minerva's husband. If I were to take my case to the president, he would be my access. But of course he's refused…I was a fool to even hope he might see reason…"

_Ahh…_It all clicked into place: That letter had been from the captain's brother-in-law, responding to yet another plea to be heard. More importantly, Nellie thought, she now knew that Beaumont didn't have nearly the influence her employers thought he possessed. Not if he needed to go through other channels to approach the highest echelons of the Confederate government – not if he couldn't make his request to the president directly. "No wonder Minerva isn't happy with you of late," she said wryly.

"Of late?" Nathan repeated, with a short bark of a laugh. "We've been at each other's throats since our school days."

"You certainly seem to have gotten very different things out of your education."

He rubbed his eyes again. "Noticed that at breakfast, did you?"

"She doesn't like me."

"'Course she doesn't."

His reaction surprised her. "Why do you say it like that? 'Of course she doesn't'?"

He turned to face her, and slowly returned to the chair he had vacated earlier. Nellie could see that he was thinking hard, trying to find the right words to express his answer. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and kept his eyes on the floor as he spoke. "Our father's will is clear. On his death Elysium was to be shared equally in ownership between Minerva and myself, though I was responsible for managing its affairs. That's what drives Minerva crazy – she owns Elysium just as much as I do, but she has no say in how the plantation is run. More important, though…Papa stipulated that if I should ever marry, the deed to Elysium would be turned over to me exclusively. Minerva was already married to Don Harrison, and more than well provided for, by the time Papa had the will made. He knew she wouldn't need the plantation in addition to the money he left her. He also knew what she'd do if the management was in her care," he finished darkly.

It suddenly seemed to Nellie that her heart was beating in her throat. She heard Beaumont's last few words; but her mind remained fixed on only one: _Marry…_Was he saying – suggesting –

_Dear God!_

She swallowed, struggling to control her breathing. _Blimey…_She knew he fancied her; but _this?_...

"So," she began, deciding to play ignorant. "She's afraid you might marry some time soon."

He still didn't look at her. "I think she does."

"And in that case, she's close to losing her claim to the plantation."

"That's right."

"That doesn't explain why she harbors a grudge against _me_," said Nellie shrewdly, yet still managing to sound innocent.

"Oh, my dear," Nathan murmured, and lifted his eyes – and Nellie saw in his glance something unsettling, something she hadn't seen since –

It made her breath catch.

"It's not obvious, then? Minerva says she can see it, by the way I look at you. She dislikes you because she fears you; she sees you as a threat to her greed. She sees in you – for the first time – someone who can take Elysium beyond her reach for good."

And then it was as though some dam burst asunder in Nellie's mind, flooding her brain with all manner of images, ideas…this could be hers, all of it…He might as well have been offering it to her on a platter: this great house, these vast lands, a life of comfort – of _luxury_, indeed! – with fine clothes and sumptuous food and liquor, and a man who loved her – truly and honestly, for once. Not to mention how such an advanced involvement might encourage equally advanced confidences, which would greatly ingratiate her with her employers…

He was very handsome. She noticed this again as she regarded him now, in the light-flooded study, his graceful movements as he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew his pipe, filled it, and lit it, all in silence. And somehow, in that moment, she realized that she was lonely – horribly so. Had been for a long time.

"Are her fears well-grounded?" she asked, her voice low and cautious.

Nathan took a few thoughtful puffs on his pipe before answering. "I realize this is terribly forward and ungentlemanly of me, considering the short time we've been acquainted. And I know it's also very unprofessional, considering our business arrangement. But…I've loved you since the moment I first laid eyes on you, Eleanor…"

She was cold and warm all at once at those words.

"…and now that Minerva has, unwittingly or otherwise, opened up the issue," he went on, "I think it must be unfair to you, not knowing where you stand with me – in all our dealings and conversations, being across the table from me, not knowing how I – "

He broke off and rose from his chair, moving to the credenza where the bourbon stood, muttering "Forgive me," as he poured out a glass and downed it in one go. "This is highly improper. I don't know what's come over me."

Nellie shook her head, still utterly overwhelmed by his revelation. But she wasn't about to allow her surprise to stop her using the situation to her advantage. "Nothing to forgive, dear," she said.

He rounded on her, his eyes hopeful yet wary. It was the first time she'd used an endearment with him, and he apparently noticed. "I know it would be too much to ask that you might return my affection – "

She locked her eyes onto his gray ones – she'd always thought he had beautiful eyes – and said, "You don't know any such thing."

His face lit – quite literally; it was as though his skin was being lighted from within, his face appearing to struggle between intense joy and incredulity that he should be so fortunate – radiant and dumbstruck at once, like a man who'd just been told every cherished wish of his life had been granted.

Never, _never_ had anyone reacted to her like this. Her Albert had loved her, certainly, and she'd known it; but he'd always been rather restrained at expressing those emotions. As for Todd –

She pushed the barber from her mind immediately and fixed her attention instead on Nathan's face. He was smiling now, and he impulsively closed the space between them, dropped to his knees, grasped her hand, and pressed his lips to it – long and fervent this time, like a lover, not the quick, polite brush of the lips he'd formerly employed. Nellie's heart began to race despite her determination to be calm and in control of herself – but she couldn't deny that it felt good. It had been too, too long since this kind of intimate attention had been lavished on her, and she found herself deriving very great pleasure from it. She decided to allow herself to enjoy it, and ignore the nagging something pulling at the back of her heart, to block out the needling protest attempting to break through to the surface of her mind. He positively covered the back of her hand with kisses, and when every bit of skin there had been ministered to, he turned the hand over and did the same to her palm, finally stopping – with an effort, it seemed to her – to hold it against his cheek and whisper her name. When he raised his head, he looked as though two decades had dropped from his features.

"I don't want to talk about the war just now," he beamed. "I don't want to talk business, I don't want to talk about my fool of a sister. You've made me so happy I only want to talk about glad things."

Yes, she thought – so very much like Barker. His elation was infectious. Nellie felt a genuine smile stealing over her face for the first time in…well, like the kisses on her hand, it had been too long. "All right, then," she said.

Nathan sprang up from his knees and moved to his desk, where he pulled open a drawer and removed a long paper, covered with writing front and back. "Actually, this is another reason I wanted to talk to you this morning," he said, coming back to his chair once again. "This is the guest list for the Christmas ball. I'd very much like it if you were involved in the planning."

"Already?" Nellie asked, grateful for a lighter topic of conversation. "Isn't it a bit early to plan that? It's only September."

"Not too early for a party of this size," Nathan laughed. "Christmas at Elysium goes on for at least a week. Here – I've already got the orchestra; it's made up of war veterans who've served out their enlistment or been honorably discharged. I thought it would be good for morale."

"Indeed," said Nellie, highly amused by the excitement this grown man was displaying. Apparently, this annual event meant a very great deal to him; and she wondered if he saw it as a part of his plantation's very identity.

"And speaking of morale," he went on, "I've issued an invitation, through my friend Samuels in the First Texas, to Private S. Todd."

In a dizzying reversal of emotion, Nellie's heart plummeted sickeningly through the very soles of her shoes. The smile froze on her lips. Her brain suddenly seemed stuffed with cotton; everything felt dreamlike, surreal. Had she dozed off somehow and fallen into a nightmare?...She couldn't be certain Nathan had really spoken those words…

But there he was, going on, as though attempting to murder her by shoveling the reality down her throat: "Hero of the Confederacy. I think it would be good for people to see him, get to meet him. I certainly can't wait to shake his hand myself. I thought we might have a war fundraiser at some point during the festivities, and Private Todd would be a good draw. In addition," he added cheerfully, "to Elias, Lord Braithwaite, British envoy to the CSA."

Nellie recognized the diplomat's name. Danforth, her mentor, had given it to her before she'd left Boston seemingly a lifetime ago. _"You'll meet up with him eventually, I'm sure,"_ he'd told her. _"Attached to the ambassador to the CSA…Braithwaite's in Richmond, working on negotiations for the potential alliance; he'll be an important contact for you eventually…Braithwaite's employer and my own are working in tandem, you know, for the good of the Crown…"_

"Nellie?"

Nathan's voice, and his gentle touch on her arm, roused her. "Hmm?"

"Are you all right, my dear?"

"Oh! Yes," she answered. And as a plan began forming in her mind, bringing her back to her senses, returning control to her, she smiled and covered his hand with her own. "I'm fine, darling."

And she meant it.

****************

_She reached for him, and found he wasn't beside her. Looking around the room, she saw him – standing stiffly at the window, his back turned to her. He'd opened the shutters and was staring out onto the sleeping street._

_"Love?" she said softly. "You all right?"_

_He made no reply._

"_Did you have another nightmare?" She was a bit hurt that he hadn't woken her, if that was the case. She liked to comfort him._

_Still he gave no response, and she said, "Come back to bed then, dear."_

_He didn't move. She watched him, ran her eyes greedily over the outline of his shoulders and back._

"_D'you know what her name means?" he said at last, after an eternity of silence. "'Lucy'?..."_

_Bloody hell. He'd been dreaming about his foolish wife. Feigning interest and sympathy – as she did so often when Lucy Barker intruded upon her lover's mind – Nellie said "No, love. Tell me."_

_"'Light," he answered, his voice barely a wisp in the darkness. "It means light. That's what she was…she was my light. And now the light has been snuffed out. It's gone. No one can ever take that place." He turned his head – ever so slightly, still not quite facing her. "No one. D'you understand me?"_

_His words were quiet, gentle – almost affectionate, as though he really was asking her to understand. She wished he'd screamed them in her face._

It was gone midnight. Nellie sat at the writing desk in her room at Elysium, a blank sheet of paper before her. She'd debated this action all day long, ever since her whirlwind of a meeting with Nathan in the early morning. Her resolve had hardened and melted by turns as the hours went by. In the end it was that memory that made her decision for her.

She took up her pen, addressed the letter to Elias, Lord Braithwaite, Richmond, Virginia, and began to write, adopting a formal tone and careful to veil her language:

_My dear Sir:_

_I have been informed by my gracious host, Captain Nathan Beaumont, that you have been given a place of honor among the list of those invited to the annual Christmas celebrations at Elysium Plantation. I do look forward to meeting you in person at that time, as we share some mutual acquaintances. _

_It may interest you to know that the name of Pvt. S. Todd is also on the guest list. I'm sure you already know his name. His invitation is no surprise, of course, given the services he has rendered to the Confederacy. At the same time, I am certain that a representative of the Crown, such as yourself, would be glad of the opportunity to see the man in person and learn more of him. _

_It may also be of interest that Captain Beaumont has expressed a desire to open service in the Confederate army to all able-bodied male slaves, aged 16 to 60. A three-year enlistment would earn freedom for every soldier thus employed. Knowing of the Crown's reluctance to aid a slave nation, the captain hopes that this plan will gain the friendship of Great Britain, and (I suspect) that of France as well._

After some closing remarks she signed it _Hoping to make your acquaintance in December – Yours most sincerely, E. Templeton_, sealed it in an envelope, and set it prominently on the desk's surface to be posted in the morning, when she would ask one of the drivers to take her into town for the day on some trumped-up errands.

"Now it all comes 'round, my love," she whispered, smiling, seeing Todd's face in her mind. "When you see me have my turn at vengeance, remember: I had a good teacher."

* * *

**A/N: **GASP! Nellie ratted out Sweeney! Special thanks to Pamena and Saime Joxxers for help on this very difficult chapter and for commisserating :D (Read their stuff. It's better than chocolate pudding.) Next chapter - the long-awaited Big Reunion between our barber-turned-soldier and baker-turned-spy. **Please review!** Thanks for reading :)


	13. ALamentableAbsenceOfSugarPlumFairies

**Disclaimers:** See ch. 1.

**A/N:** If you're expecting them to run off into the woods, you're going to be disappointed. However, I hope you enjoy anyway ;)

* * *

**13**

**A Lamentable Absence of Sugar Plum Fairies.**

**December, 1862.**

The Christmas festivities were just the thing to cheer Nathan's spirits. Not two days after the captain's conversation with Nellie about his efforts to offer freedom to slaves through military service, chiefly in hopes of garnering foreign support for the South, Union President Abraham Lincoln issued the edict of emancipation. Nathan had been nearly destroyed by the news.

"Darling," Nellie had said, alarmed by his reaction. She'd never seen him so utterly furious. "What does it matter _how_ the slaves are freed?"

He rounded on her. "Because it must be on _our_ terms! Now, with this…this…" Red-faced, he stabbed the paper in his hand with a shaking finger. "This so-called _Emancipation Proclamation_ – freed slaves will _flock_ to the North! They'll enlist and swell the Yankee ranks by the thousands! That damn tyrant Lincoln – let him see how much authority he's got here in the sovereign state of Georgia!"

He was screaming. He balled up the paper, hurled it across the room with a cry, and stormed to the window. He carried on in a more subdued, quavering, breathless tone: "Everything my grandfather built, everything he sweated for, everything my father believed in…I can see it crumbling, Nellie, before my eyes. All is lost…We missed our opportunity. Britain will never ally with us…not now…It's over."

Then Nellie had watched aghast as he abruptly seized a paper weight from his desk and pitched it straight through the open door, sending it right across the hallway beyond until it punched a hole in the opposite wall. _"God damn it!"_ he shrieked.

Nellie was shocked by this language (the man never swore in her presence, not ever); but a quiet arousal stirred in her at his display of temper – rather like what she'd felt when she'd seen him thrash the overseer. Speechless with how magnificent she found Beaumont at just this moment, she could only stare at him, her jaw slack. He recovered almost immediately, however; and, looking away from Nellie, said, in an unsteady voice, "Forgive me. That was uncalled for."

Nellie let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Dear," she said quietly, approaching him and placing her hands on his shoulders. "You don't have to be a flawless gentleman every moment of every day. Not with me, anyhow."

He cast his eyes down to the floor, looking mollified.

"But you really do have a touchy temper, you know," she continued, approaching him slowly, not mentioning how she quite liked the terrible masculine energy on display at such times. "It's one of your worst faults. What if Marcus had been passing in the hall? You'd have brained the poor man."

He was still studying the carpet, the flush on his face now, Nellie knew, due to shame rather than anger. She drew close to him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and said, "You've every right to be angry. Furious, even. But your father and grandfather wouldn't want you to lie down and die over it, would they?"

He finally flicked a glance in her direction, and shook his head. "No. No, they would not."

Her hands slid to his chest, and she lightly scratched the fabric of his shirt with her fingernails. "That sword over the mantel in the drawing room, your grandfather's sword from the Revolt – "

Nathan's mouth twitched in a reluctant smile. "We call it the Revolution, my dear."

Nellie returned a mischievous smile of her own. "Sorry, love. You always say you want to live up to what that sword stands for. Has that changed? Can old Abe Lincoln take that away from you?"

"No," he growled.

"Right. Now kiss me."

He swallowed, creased his brow, and looked furtively towards the door.

"Come on," Nellie coaxed, pouting prettily. "I haven't had a kiss all day."

"Nellie – "

She snaked her arms around his waist – he was quite a bit taller than she – and tilted her chin to plant a chaste kiss on his jaw. "Come on, you need to get your mind off things for a bit…"

She knew he wouldn't be able to resist her for long, and sure enough his lips found hers and he captured her mouth fervently, winding his fingers in her hair, uttering a soft moan. "Nellie," he managed, in a pause between kisses. "The door…"

"Hmm, what about it, dear?..."

"It's open…"

"And?"

"You know we need to be discreet."

She allowed him to pull back – though he kept his arms around her – and was taken slightly off-guard by the strength of the desire in his eyes as he looked at her.

"You said temper was _one_ of my faults," he said playfully, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. "What's the other one?"

She cocked an eyebrow. "Well I'd say arrogance, off the top of my head, since you assume you only have one other."

He chuckled. The only trace of wrath that remained now was a visible tiredness; his face was drawn, weary.

"If you must know," said Nellie lightly, "it's pride."

Nathan's brow furrowed. She could tell she'd thrown him by this remark. "Honestly," she said, "you think the outcome of this entire war rests squarely on your shoulders and yours alone. As though the Confederacy stands or falls on the success or failure of Captain Nathan Beaumont's plans." And suddenly, as she spoke, the revelation dawned on her that she was genuinely concerned about him. "You've got to stop carrying the whole burden of your country, or you're going to go to pieces."

He shook his head. "I can't rest unless I know I'm doing everything in my power."

"I know, dear."

With a sudden movement his hands were at her jawline, cradling her face. "Well then, know this too," he said: "If my work for the Cause ever starts to…interfere…if it takes me away from you…I'll be done with it. It's not worth losing you. Nothing is."

He might as well have said he was going to run off and defect to the Union army. Stunned beyond coherent thought, she could make no reply to this. For the first time she could remember, she was utterly without a retort.

******************

Nathan had decided not to abide by the Proclamation, out of sheer refusal to acknowledge Lincoln's jurisdiction over the South. When Nellie had casually asked Hattie her feelings on the matter, the woman had only offered her standard reply: "I'm an old woman, Miss Nellie…where would I go anyway?..." But Nellie feared that despite Nathan's attempts to treat his slaves with fairness, unrest was brewing – resentment that at long last freedom had been decreed, and was still denied.

Worse yet for Nellie's position was the fact that the Proclamation had, as Nathan predicted, severely cooled relations between the CSA and Great Britain. She heaved an internal sigh of relief at the thought that she'd rescued herself just in time: by responding to Beaumont's amorous advances, she had secured her place in his home. Should the fake shipping connection be brought to an end, and her employers remain interested in Beaumont, she had a new reason to stick close to him. In the event that her employers abandoned the mission altogether, she need not worry about having a place to go when the Crown no longer required her services.

But in the midst of all these concerns Christmas approached, and it was as though all doubt and anger and fear became temporarily absorbed in planning for the gala event. Nathan appeared visibly happier as the days on the calendar ticked down to the twenty-fourth – the night of the opening ball – and even Minerva seemed less cold and hostile towards Nellie than her typical habit. No expense was spared in dressing the house: a massive spruce dominated the entrance hall, its top soaring to brush the ceiling forty feet above; a similar tree graced the ballroom. Winter greenery of all kinds intertwined with bright red holly to drape along mantels and wind around banisters, a lush wreath adorned every door, and each lintel sported a sprig of mistletoe. Nellie joked to Nathan that this was as close as she'd ever come to living in a pine forest; but in all seriousness she found it rather lovely, with the fresh, clean scent of the greens permeating the house. Slaves worked round the clock, it seemed, carting in food and liquor and other necessities; as the date drew nearer the hum of activity on the lower floors became constant. Beaumont's little niece and nephew ran about excitedly, apparently under the impression that their aimless activity was somehow helping with the labor. Nellie liked to see them, though it brought a pang to her heart as well. She couldn't help but think of her Toby – yes, she still thought of him as hers, and she sighed in resignation whenever she realized that she always would – of where he was, what he was doing, how he would be spending his Christmas leave…Had he perhaps found a friend in his regiment who might invite him to spend the holiday with his own family?...Or was he even at this moment a prisoner, shivering in the cold squalor of a camp, far from any safe, warming fireside?...Assuming, of course, that Toby had even lived to see Christmas…

It was on a particularly cold afternoon, when she needed to get away from all the hubbub but didn't fancy going outdoors to freeze, that Nellie slipped away to her room and discovered a large box lying on her bed.

Curious, she shut her door and moved swiftly to investigate the package. It was tied with a deep purple bow, and tucked under the ribbon was a folded card. Certain that this must reveal the giver of this gift, Nellie removed the card and read:

_My dearest Eleanor – nothing could possibly add to your beauty; but I hope this brings you some pleasure nonetheless. Nathan._

She smiled: this was the first gift he'd given her. She'd grown terribly fond of him. She found herself pretending with him less and less, and genuinely returning his affection. _And why not?_ she thought. It was high time, she told herself, that she enjoyed a healthy romance. She bloody well deserved it after all she'd been through over the tortuous course of her life – from Barker's arrest and absence, to the death of her Albert, to her fifteen-year fight for survival, to Todd and what he did to her. High time, she thought, that it was her turn at happiness, for once – _real_ happiness, not the counterfeit she'd tricked up out of her obsession with the barber. And Nathan Beaumont offered her that.

_So why do I always feel as though I ought to apologize?..._

She let that last thought slide out of mind, as she did with so many troublesome thoughts, and lifted the box's lid – and her breath was stolen away.

Nestled in layers of crisp white tissue was the most glorious dress Nellie had ever seen. Brilliant emerald green silk, glittering in the sunlight streaming through her window…but no – when she looked closer she realized it wasn't the fabric that was shining. Countless delicately-cut emeralds had been sewn across the top of the bodice, sweeping up over the shoulders and across the back, trailing down to trace the outline of the waist. Only when she (almost fearfully) lifted a sleeve to feel the fabric did she notice that the shimmering green jewels were also looped around the openings of the sleeves.

"I had it made by the finest dressmaker in Atlanta."

Nellie started at the voice, and turned towards it. Nathan was standing just beyond the doorway, arms folded, his expression quietly anxious. "It's meant to be your Christmas present. Do you like it?"

"Like isn't quite the word, dear," Nellie breathed, looking again to the dress and running her hand lovingly over the luxurious skirt. "I've never seen anything like it…must have cost a bloo – ah, a fortune…"

Smiling now, Nathan waved off her comment. "Don't concern yourself over that."

Then a thought occurred to Nellie, and her head snapped in Beaumont's direction, her brows knit. "How did you know my measurements?"

Nathan looked to the floor shyly, still smiling, like a boy discovered in some mischief and knowing he was good and caught. "Hattie took them from the dresses in your wardrobe."

"That little devil," Nellie murmured. "Well, darling" – she faced him fully, one hand on her hip and the other lightly clasping the bedpost – "come on in so I can thank you properly."

She knew he wouldn't; but she enjoyed flustering him. Sure enough, he glanced up at her through his lashes and said playfully, "That would be most _im_proper, my dear."

"Oh now, I'm giving you permission. You can leave the door wide open. I won't devour you." Then she winked and added, "Unless you ask nicely."

He went a bit red at that – just the reaction Nellie had hoped for. "Still," he sighed, "if I did go in I'd be required to marry you."

She raised an eyebrow. "Even if you just put a toe over the threshold and I didn't touch you?"

"Yes."

"Well, we can't have that," she said archly.

Then his smile turned sad, and he said, "Tempting as it is, I must decline. You can…thank me properly, as you say, by writing my name at the top of your dance card." He nodded towards the dress. "Will you wear it to the ball?"

He was reading her mind – or she'd been reading his. "Of course I will, darling."

***************

Sweeney Todd had initially declined the invitation. What in God's name would he do at a formal ball? Spending a week at the home of a man he'd never met, being subjected to the inane games and diversions indulged in during such events by grown men and women attempting to regain their childhood? All this in addition to the fact that he largely distrusted his potential host's motives for the invitation. No one else but Lt. Samuels had been invited from the regiment; and the officer was a personal friend of this Nathan Beaumont. Todd suspected that perhaps he'd been on the guest list because of his battle exploits; and he wondered to what use or advantage certain men might try to put him in light of his growing reputation as the epitome of Confederate bravery. Samuels had told him before that his fame would boost southern morale – as much as admitting that Todd's particular soldiering style made perfect fodder for Confederate propaganda. He had a distinct and insistent feeling – ever since Samuels had first offered him his field commission and warned him of imminent celebrity – that he was being courted as a mascot.

But in the end Samuels had talked him into it. He had to admit, in the end, that the lieutenant had a point: a warm house with a decent bed was a far better place to spend his holiday leave than a hard cot in the damp, icy, drafty barracks at whatever garrison he'd be sent to for temporary shelter, set aside for men who had no family to go to. With any luck, he'd be able to keep his head down and last out the week without drawing undue and unwanted attention.

They had to be driven to the plantation by sleigh, as a heavy snow blanketed the ground. Todd's jaw tightened as the massive house came into view: it reminded him far too much of the big houses in London, houses of men like Turpin, houses mortared with blood and tears. He wondered how many lives this Beaumont had ruined in order to keep such a house, such a fortune. A seething dislike for the man was already stirring in Todd's mind when the sleigh glided to a stop before the massive façade.

Todd stepped out of the vehicle with a grunt, his dress shoes crunching on little crystals of ice left behind by the earlier clearing of the walk. The great front doors stood open to admit the flood of guests, and warm, welcoming yellow light poured into the night, spilling across the verandah and down the steps. From somewhere deep within the house, faint strains of music drifted out onto the evening air.

He swallowed, feeling distinctly out of place despite his smart military winter cloak, as he and Samuels fell in among the other guests. There was a knot of people at the doors and they had to stand waiting on the verandah; Todd could hear a great bass voice inside the house, calling out what must be the names of the guests. Behind him, another sleigh pulled up and disgorged a gaggle of cheerful men and women who placed themselves immediately behind Todd, who thus found himself surrounded front and back with fine tailored clothes, glimmering jewelry, perfectly-groomed hair and the overpowering scent of money. A burst of raucous laughter sounded from inside the house.

"Feeling all right, Todd?" Samuels asked beside him.

"I feel like killing someone," said Todd in a dead voice.

"Ha!" Samuels slapped him on the back. "You are a pistol, my friend!"

At last the glut broke, and Todd and Samuels moved with the human tide over the threshold. Todd blinked in the light the seemed to burst on his eyes. Despite the doors being open, the opulent entrance hall managed nevertheless to be warm.

"Your invitations?"

The voice had issued from somewhere above Todd's head. Craning his neck, he found himself under the scrutiny of a huge bearded butler, nearly as well-dressed as the guests, his face as deeply black as the night sky outside. When he and Samuels reached into their respective cloaks and produced their invitations, the slave turned his glittering eyes to Samuels and said, "Lieutenant Samuels, my employer wishes me to tell you that he is most anxious to see you again, and that his home is home to both of you while you are here."

"Thank you, Marcus," Samuels replied.

"And the captain wishes also that I offer his warmest personal greetings to you – " his eyes flicked to the sleeve of Todd's dark gray frock coat – "Sergeant Todd."

Todd nodded stiffly.

"If either of you are armed, the captain requires that your weapons go no further," said the butler.

Both men shook their heads. "We have none," Samuels said.

Marcus extended his arm, beckoning them into the house. "Then welcome to Elysium," he said cordially. And then, to Todd's horror, the man turned to the crowd filling the entrance hall and boomed, as though he wanted to be heard in Spain: "FIRST LIEUTENANT CLEM SAMUELS AND SERGEANT S. TODD, OF THE FIRST TEXAS INFANTRY!"

The din of conversation among the crowd subsided at once, replaced by a hush that felt unnatural, rushing as it did right on the heels of so much noise. Hundreds of eyes – wide, curious, fascinated – fastened on Todd.

Then, as suddenly as the silence had descended, a great roar went up – the guests cheering, clapping, shouting, whistling. There was a ripple in the human sea as a man energetically pushed his way out of the hall and vanished – seconds later, march-tempo music erupted from a nearby room, and the crowd began to sing along: _"Hurrah! Hurrah! For southern rights, hurrah! Hurrah for the bonnie blue flag that bears a single star!"_

Todd felt he'd never had a better reason to wish he'd been killed in action. Suddenly Samuels' hand was on his back, propelling him into the multitude – his hands were seized and shaken, his shoulders grasped; grinning faces loomed out of the mass of strangers and retreated again, to be replaced by others…Someone shoved a drink into Todd's hand, and he instantly, instinctively poured it down his throat. His brain had just enough time to vaguely register that it was bourbon before he realized that people were talking to him. "An honor, a _true honor_, sir…" "You are the shining star of the Confederacy, sir…" "Thank you, sir, thank you for what you've done for our country…" "Sergeant Todd, my family would be honored if you would grace our home as our guest at the Easter holidays…" "Sergeant Todd, would you add your name to my daughter's dance card?..."

They were welcoming him as though he were a god – and why? Because he had more blood on his hands than any other soldier in his regiment, because he slew men without hesitation. He felt a corner of his mouth curling at the thought: would they be as adoring if they knew the circumstances under which he'd killed other men? Would they be as delighted to make his acquaintance, regale him with song, had they known he'd once slit men's throats without the sanction of a uniform?...

The pleasant warmth of the hall became stifling now, the light blinding; Todd longed for the cool, open darkness beyond the front door. A man in crisp, immaculate, tailored civilian dress clothes was pumping his hand and saying "You have our everlasting gratitude, sir, for placing your life in danger for the Cause…"

Something snapped in Todd's mind at these words. Had the man not released Todd's hand at just that moment, Todd might have crushed his fingers. All these fools, thanking him for fighting their war…He wanted to grab them and shake them and slam them into the bloody wall and ask how much money they'd paid, when their names had come up for conscription, to have a proxy sent in their stead while they rested easy in their mansions with their slaves and their food and their liquor and their fine clothes, while their substitutes in the field broke their teeth on hardtack and marched with bleeding feet along the frozen ground?..._How much money did you part with so a man with less wealth and power and influence could slowly bleed to death or vanish in a cloud of shrapnel in your place?...I've seen them, you bastards, men screaming for their mothers as they scrabbled to scoop their innards back inside the shells of their guts when it should've been you…_

"All right, give this man some air!"

A strong, clear voice broke through the cacophony, dissipating the red haze that had begun marring Todd's vision. "He'll be here all week, you know…"

The crowd laughed and thinned, allowing the passage of a tall man wearing the dress uniform of a Confederate captain. He was making his way straight toward them, striding along with a purpose; and Todd knew this must be their host when he caught Samuels in a rough embrace, greeting him like a brother.

"Nate," the lieutenant said, "allow me to introduce you to – "

Nathan Beaumont fixed stormy eyes on Todd, and said "Excuse me, Clem, but this gentleman needs no introduction. Allow me to congratulate you on your promotion, Sergeant Todd. I wish I'd known sooner; I'd have addressed the invitation properly."

He offered his hand, which Todd took and shook briefly. The man's handshake was firm. "I've waited a long time to shake your hand, sir."

He was another one, thought Todd. What right had he to wear that uniform? Samuels had told him on the journey to Georgia that after graduating West Point, Beaumont had chosen a life of politics rather than battle. As far as Todd was concerned, the only men who deserved to bear that gray coat on their shoulders were those who'd earned it in blood. But he plastered on the false smile he'd worn so often when playing the part of the friendly barber just before slitting a man's throat, all the while thinking that if anyone ever deserved to die, it was this jumped-up git standing in front of him.

"You're sweating, son," Samuels spoke up. "You all right? You went pretty wild-eyed for a moment there."

Todd's tongue flicked out to moisten his lips, and he discovered that his mouth and throat were parched as sand. "I'm not accustomed to…so much attention, from such a great number at once," he rasped.

Beaumont nodded, smiled. "I'm afraid you'll have to make the effort to grow accustomed to it, Sergeant," he said, placing a friendly hand on Todd's arm as though he'd known him forever, making every sinew in Todd's limb go taut as a ship's cable – "you're a hero to us all. In the meantime, you would do me a very great honor by having a drink with me."

There was that word again – honor. Todd had heard it so often this evening, in the space of the last five minutes, that he wondered if anyone in this house knew what it meant. Honored to shake his hand, honored to be in his presence, honored to share a drink. He wondered if it could be bandied about so easily because, in fact, it possessed no meaning at all.

Beaumont was on one side of him and Samuels on the other, both shepherding him in the direction of the room from which the rollicking chorus of "The Bonnie Blue Flag" was still issuing. Beaumont was chattering on about some battle or other, asking for details, and Samuels was enthusiastically answering him, as they drew near to passing the grand staircase. Todd's rabid admirers had, at least, fallen back, allowing him space to move, though he continued to sense heads and eyes constantly turning in his direction. Not wishing to see this attention, and wishing with all his might that he'd chosen to spend his leave in the frigid barracks instead, Todd rolled his eyes about the hall, looking at the paneling, the festoons of greenery, anything at all – when a movement on the stairs caught his eye – a soft swish of green fabric…

And then it seemed the very floor beneath his feet disappeared.

No breath, no air, no thought, no feeling, no sound – the world around him vanished and all he could see was Lovett, descending the staircase, one slender pale hand gliding along the railing.

Yes – it was unmistakably Lovett. It wasn't someone who resembled her. He would know if that were the case. No one else could possess that striking profile, that porcelain complexion, those tresses like dusky flame…no one else could imitate the way she moved – he'd watched her often enough in the past, oh yes, to recognize the way she moved – no one else could exude that _presence_ – so familiar – he could feel her where he stood – an aura uniquely her own, like a characteristic scent…

It was not merely another guest. It was Lovett.

_She's dead._

_You're dead. Dead. Buried and cold and rotting in a pit across the sea._

_I've gone mad._

_Or I'm dead too…perhaps I've been dead for a long time now, and she's finally come to escort me to hell –_

"Todd?"

He heard the voice, but could not look round. His eyes would not leave her. A freezing bead of sweat tracked slowly down his chest like a rivulet of ice water…

"You look like you've seen a ghost!"

Dear God…that was it…yes, this was her ghost, come to haunt him, to dog his steps for the rest of his days, to see that he never had a moment's peace…just as he'd condemned her to a life without peace…she'd come to bring his own words back on him…

Then there was a stirring beside him – Beaumont was moving, disengaging himself from Todd's side and moving forward, extending his hand, into which Lovett, smiling radiantly, slipped her own pale, slender fingers.

So Beaumont could see her too. And touch her.

She was real, then.

She was alive.

Todd was numb, not even breathing – the only thing he could feel was the mad slamming of his heart against his ribs, seemingly trying to smash its way out of his chest. A glance passed between Lovett and the captain that Todd could not help but notice, subtle though it was. Then – _then_ her eyes lighted on him: not dead eyes, not the eyes of a corpse or a spirit, but more full of life than any gaze he'd ever seen, narrowed with malice and triumph and vindication, though her mouth was still smiling pleasantly.

But there was one thing missing from her gaze – surprise.

She'd been expecting to see him.

Beaumont was presenting her to Todd now, saying, "Allow me to introduce Miss Eleanor Templeton. Miss Templeton, it's my honor to present – "

"Why Mr. Todd," she said happily, grinning and offering him the hand Beaumont wasn't holding – directly below his chin, her palm down, an unmistakable and unavoidable cue that Todd was to kiss the hand, rather than merely shake it. "How lovely to see you again. It's been _too_ long."

Her voice was a hundred bayonets in him, worse than any shrapnel blast, worse than a storm of bullets.

Taken off-guard by her bright, casual demeanor, Todd bent to brush cold lips to her knuckles – she was solid, he felt the softness of her warm flesh and the hardness of her bones; and in that moment any lingering doubt was shattered completely and he knew, finally and beyond question, that all this was really happening, that she was alive. Only one thought now chased away all others: _How?..._

Beaumont's eyebrows shot up and he exclaimed, "You don't mean to say the two of you have met before!"

"Of course," said Lovett. "Mr. Todd and I go quite a way back, from a mutual acquaintance in London. We met one night in front of a hearth fire."

A disturbingly vivid image of the evening to which he knew she was referring flashed through Todd's mind, and he suddenly found it extremely difficult to breathe; but Beaumont, blissfully ignorant, merely chuckled and said "Sounds cozy."

"Oh, it was."

The captain looked to Todd and laughed easily, clapping him on the back. "Well no wonder you looked so shocked when you saw her come down the stairs! Imagine encountering each other again here, all of a sudden, halfway around the world! But why on earth didn't you tell me before," he asked Lovett, "when I mentioned his name?"

"Well Todd is a common enough surname, isn't it?" she answered, never once releasing Todd's eyes. "It wasn't till I saw him just now that I realized it was the same Mr. Todd I once knew."

The lie was effortless, artless. The initial shock of seeing her had been slowly ebbing since he'd been assured of her reality by touching her hand; now, anger was flooding in to take its place. Whatever had happened to her since he'd seen her last, whatever had brought her to this situation, in this house, she hadn't changed. He glanced at Beaumont – the man was beaming, as though his two long-separated best friends had been reunited. She was playing the man like a bloody fiddle, and he didn't have an inkling.

"Well I must correct you on one point, Eleanor," Beaumont was saying. "It's Sergeant Todd now, not Mister." He nodded to the black chevrons on Todd's sleeve to illustrate his point.

Lovett gasped. "An officer! I'd no idea! You _have_ done well for yourself, haven't you?"

"He has indeed," said Beaumont, "and I hope to learn more about the battles that earned your commission, Sergeant, over that drink I offered you – " but he was cut off when the resounding bass of the butler's voice sounded above the din of the guests' conversations: "Ladies and gentlemen! If you would kindly repair to the ballroom, the evening's dancing will soon begin."

At this, Lovett said, "Well, it certainly was grand to see you again after all this time, Mr. Todd," and turned to Beaumont. But the captain, looking as though a sudden revelation had come to him, looked to Todd and said, "Sergeant, my name is at the top of Miss Templeton's dance card; but as much of an honor as it would be to have the first waltz with this lady, I would be even more honored if that waltz would be yours." And he offered Lovett's hand to Todd.

"Splendid!" she cried, above Todd's vain protest of "Oh no, sir, I couldn't possibly – " and her fingers were digging into his flesh like cold steel talons, steering him along with the human tide swelling towards the ballroom.

"Miss me, love?" she said, _sotto voce_, the noise of the crowd sufficiently swallowing her voice so that none but Todd could hear.

He adopted her low tone. "You look damn well for a dead woman."

"Oh! You read that too? I was so flattered the news made it all the way over here."

Todd noticed that the posh accent she'd affected in Beaumont's presence had vanished. Now, with him, she was speaking naturally. He could not let this realization pass without remark. "Looks like we don't have to go to London to look at the queen," he said, smirking wickedly.

"Whatever do you mean, dear?"

"Well – in that dress, with that hair…you look like a bloody Christmas tree yourself."

He'd meant it as an insult, and suspected she knew it; but her smile was radiant. "Why thank you, Mr. Todd. I find Christmas trees very cheery and festive."

They had reached the ballroom, and the orchestra was just striking up the first waltz of the evening.

"He give it to you?"

"Who give me what?"

Todd merely glared. He was tired of her little games, and of the fact that she thought she could still play them with him; that she cherished the idea that he might not know all her tricks by now. She was still taking him for slow-witted, just as she had on Fleet Street when she'd thought him stupid enough to deceive day in and day out; and it made his blood boil though he couldn't understand why he ought to care anymore.

She twisted her hand from his elbow to his bicep, forcing his hand to her waist as she did so and gripping his free hand. "What if he did give me this dress?" she simpered up at him.

His smirk returned as he stepped firmly, confidently into the waltz. This, at least, was familiar…Much as he wanted to strangle this woman, he was forced to reluctantly admit to himself that this, dancing with her as he'd done countless times before, was the only familiar thing in this too-bright, too-noisy, alien place. To prevent himself from clinging to this unwelcome sense of comfort, he continued firing barbs at her. "Just wonderin' if he's sharin' your bed, or you're sharin' his."

She wasn't fussed; not a ripple of indignation could Todd see in her expression, and her voice was casual as she said, "Neither one. Not that it's any o' your concern who I share what with."

He swallowed. His skin was inexplicably burning as with fever at the thought that she might – yet again – be lying, that Beaumont might be her lover. He attributed this to the fact that, if this was the case and she had found happiness, his wishes that she would endure a life of uninterrupted woe were going unfulfilled. "I find that hard to believe," he growled, as though refusing to believe it would make it untrue. "Doesn't know you though, does he? Not like I do."

"Tsk, now Mr. Todd," she said slyly, "You still find me desirable, I see. I'm flattered. Captain Beaumont finds me desirable too, but he's what's called a gentleman in this country. Never dream o' takin' advantage."

"What a shame," said Todd, sarcasm oozing from every syllable. "As I recall, you were never concerned that _I_ behave as a 'gentleman'. In fact, you much preferred that I didn't."

Now – _now_, to his incalculable satisfaction, the smug simper vanished from her face. "Stop it," she said.

"Why?" Now he was beginning to enjoy himself. "I'm only thinkin' o' what I should say to him."

Her eyes narrowed, an unspoken threat glinting in them. "You bleedin' cur, you wouldn't – "

"I only think it's important the bloke knows what your…preferences are," said Todd, in a mockery of deep thought. "Let me see now. Shall I tell him the kinds o' things you like to have whispered in your ear? How he can know when you're about to go out o' your senses? _Exactly_ where you like to be – "

"You evil son of a – "

They'd danced right to the French doors onto the back verandah now, and Todd abruptly halted their motion to wrench open the door and pull her outside with him. He dragged her beyond the long patches of light spilling from the ballroom, ignoring her attempts to thrash out of his grip, and headed for a dark corner. "Or shall I just warn him about your snoring?" he finished.

She shook herself free of him, and in a gesture so familiar it made him feel almost nostalgic, her hands went to her hips and her expression was matter-of fact as she tossed her head and said, "Right. What the bloody hell are you doin' here?"

Now that they were alone and could speak freely, the time for amusement was over. He advanced on her, teeth bared. "I was invited."

"Not here at the ball. Here in this _country_."

"I happen to be fighting a war, Mrs. Lovett."

Her eyes grew anxious at that, like the eyes of a deer in a hunter's line of fire. For a fleeting instant the thought flitted across his mind that she might actually be worried about him, and the idea of causing her any degree of anguish provided the first glimmer of amusement he'd felt in a very long time. But this hope was quashed when she said, "Better be careful how you use that name. You won't only have me to answer to."

Now there, Todd thought, was an interesting comment. He wondered what the blazes it meant. Perhaps that, if her identity were revealed, his would be as well? Was she threatening to expose him?...

Setting his jaw, he said, "I saw the report that you'd…been killed. In Newgate."

"Well I wasn't killed, as you can see."

"Were you really in Newgate?"

She hesitated. "Yes, I was."

"Then how the bloody devil are you standin' here?"

"Sorry dear," she answered, "you won't get that from me."

But her guardedness only served to confirm the suspicion taking shape in his mind. The phony accent, the fake name, her presence in the home of one of the CSA's most prominent citizens, the falsified news article...the incontrovertible fact that people did not simply walk out of Newgate Prison unless they made –

"A deal," he said quietly. "You didn't just escape, as I did, and land in Beaumont's good graces by chance. You made a deal."

A corner of her mouth quirked. "Thinkin' o' turnin' me in, dear? I'd think twice if I were you."

"Why?" he said. "'Cause I'll hang along with you?" He shook his head curtly. "I'm not afraid to die."

"No indeed," she said airily. "Seems to me you're tryin' your damnedest to do just that, from the way I hear you throw yourself straight into the Yankees' teeth."

He was grinding his own teeth now. He wasn't getting to her at all. Nothing he said riled her. She must have good reason, he thought, for her supreme confidence – bordering on arrogance, actually – she must be under the protection of a very high power indeed – higher than a provincial aristocrat – to have such an unassailable sense of safety. But Todd had no interest in subjecting her to the authorities in any case. What he wanted was that she should suffer, and exposing certain aspects of her past to Beaumont would quite nicely fit that bill. He needn't tell the captain her true identity – without proof, such an outlandish accusation would get him laughed off the plantation, "war hero" or not. But he could tell him that his former relationship with "Miss Templeton" had gone far beyond simple acquaintance.

"I wonder," he whispered hoarsely, "what he would say if I told him you and I were once lovers?"

Her eyes, nearly black in the moonlight, bored into him till something seemed to squirm deep in his chest. "That what we were?" she said softly.

Todd chewed the inside of his cheek. She'd backed him into a corner. But he wouldn't he baited. He dodged her remark by saying only, "Well? What would he do?"

She knew his motive exactly, judging by her quiet response: "Go ahead. Tell him whatever you want. You're angry because your little curse ain't workin' like you hoped, 'cause I'm not pinin' myself into a grave; but what you don't realize is you've already done your bloody worst. Nothin' you could ever do to me now could hold a candle to – "

She broke off abruptly; but there was no trace of tears in her voice, only an edge of bitterness that caught him off-guard. It surprised him that she still felt so pained by the way he'd left her: she was a strong woman, she'd survived much worse; surely she'd have shrugged him off by now, just as she'd shrugged off so many other unpleasant misfortunes in her life, and moved on…particularly now that the wealthy, influential Beaumont had taken an obvious shine to her. The man possessed everything Lovett had ever wanted: money, reputation, power. So why should acid still sound in her voice when she spoke of that last night on Fleet Street?...

They stood in silence then, for long moments, until at length she turned and stepped away from him.

But he caught her arm, and the quickness and firmness of the action spun her about to face him again. "Where're you goin'?" he demanded.

"Back inside where it's warm." She spat the words. "I'm freezin' out here, and I don't fancy dyin' o' pneumonia any time soon. So unless there's anything else you'd like to know I wish you'd let go o' my bloody arm."

There was something else; but he hesitated to ask it. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to hear the answer. But as he sensed that her patience would not hold out much longer, he said: "Those guards. At Newgate. The ones what swung for supposedly killin' you."

"What about 'em?"

"Did they…did they do what else that article said?" He swallowed, collecting himself, then went on. "Did they violate you?" The very words felt filthy in his mouth; and suddenly all the old images rushed upon him, the things he'd seen in his mind since he'd read that battered newspaper, things they'd done to her, and in his mounting wrath he tried to blink them away.

"And what does that matter to you?" she hissed in reply.

For some reason he couldn't define, Todd felt her words like a fist jammed into his gut. "Just answer the bleedin' question!" he snarled.

For the first time that evening, her expression softened, melted into a confused kind of surprise. "Blimey, I think you really do care about that – "

"_Nellie!"_ he growled warningly, and shook her arm.

It was the first time since London that he'd spoken that name. It had slipped out, run away from him, and like a fired bullet there was no reversing its path. For an eternity, it seemed, they stood facing each other, silent and stunned, the white mist of their breaths mingling in the space between them, the air made thick and alive by the pronouncing of that one small word.

Finally, Lovett shook her head, and her voice was soft as she said, "No. They didn't. Weren't for lack o' tryin', but…no."

A tremendous weight seemed to fall from Todd's shoulders at her words, a burden he'd been carrying for too long. "Good then," he murmured.

While he was still speaking, the sudden sound of the French doors caught his attention, and like a lad discovered in some mischief, he started and turned. Beaumont was standing just on the verandah side of the threshold.

Lovett saw him in almost the same moment as Todd, and she gasped sharply and jerked her arm. Only then did Todd realize that she was still in his grip, and he released her – with difficulty; he supposed his fingers were stiff from the cold.

"Catching up?" said Beaumont, smiling widely.

"Yes," was Lovett's breezy reply. "Must have all the gossip from London, after all." She turned to Todd and said, "I'm so glad to hear Mrs. Worthington had the baby…"

"Well come back in the warm," said the captain. "Lord Braithwaite's just arrived, and I'd like to introduce him to the sergeant here. I think he'd be very interested to meet one of his fellow Englishmen giving his all for the Cause."

Lovett moved away then, accepting Beaumont's arm; but she cast a furtive glance back at Todd as she did so, and he thought he saw a trace of anxiety and regret etched in her pallid features.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm sorry to say, it will probably be a few weeks before the next chapter goes up. I need to focus my energy on finishing a school paper before the new semester begins (long story...). Anyway, I'll be working on it gradually. **Please review**, and enjoy the last days of summer! Thanks for reading! :D


	14. Questionable Motives

**Disclaimers:** See chapter 1.

**A/N:** Greetings! Also apologies for the long wait on this chapter. That pesky little tihng called life just won't stop getting in the way ;) Seriously - I have no plans to abandon this fic, so if another long wait happens just know that it won't be forever.

Bloody Pumpkinhead has done a drawing of our very own Nathan Beaumont. Very handsome, and a great job on the uniform too :D The link is on my profile, so check it out and let her know what you think!

BP has also coined a new phrase to describe the relationship between the Captain and our favorite baker - NELLMONT. Is that brilliant or what? :D

Bellatrix Le Fey has written a poem inspired by this fic. It focuses on Sweeney's POV. That link is also on my profile, so when you're done with this chapter scurry on over and give it a read!

* * *

**14**

**Questionable Motives.**

Nellie was sorely disappointed.

Braithwaite hadn't done a thing on Christmas Eve. Not a single…bloody…_thing_. There had been no arrest, no public revelation, no Braithwaite pointing an accusing finger at Todd and shouting _"Murderer!"_ for God and the rest of the world to hear. The envoy had merely shaken Todd's hand, pressed some liquor on him, asked him his reasons for fighting for the Confederacy (Todd replying that he'd simply been looking for a change), solicited his opinion on the war and slavery and Britain's involvement (Todd mumbling unintelligibly on all of these topics), and then moved off to shake other hands. Nellie had stood aghast, attempting to hide her agitation by drawing Nathan's attention for the next dance, which he'd more than happily granted. After this she'd been unable to look Todd in the eye all evening. This proved most awkward, since Nathan sought out the new sergeant (Nellie's mind still boggled at the idea that Sweeney Todd was now an army officer – didn't suit him a bit, she thought; that uniform was positively ridiculous on him) at every opportunity; and there were moments when Nellie felt Todd's eyes burning into her, and she wondered how long it would be before he tried to get her alone again so he could wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze.

After the dancing had ended and the orchestra departed, and the ladies repaired to cards in the drawing room and the men to tobacco and liquor, Nellie had seen Nathan steering the former barber towards the smoking room along with the rest of the men, Braithwaite among them. _Ah_, she'd thought, _he'll have you now!_ So in a kind of victory salute, she'd caught Todd's eye and surreptitiously blown him a kiss as he'd been practically dragged along to spend what Nellie knew would be, for him, a most painful remainder of the evening. Even without the threat of imminent arrest.

But as the night drew on, the arrest still hadn't come. When she approached her room to retire for the night, she saw Todd entering a door down the hall. He turned at the sound of her step, and scowled when he saw her. Not wishing him to see her disappointment and frustration that he wasn't in leg irons, she'd winked and said "Sweet dreams, dear"; and he'd wrenched open the door, disappeared into the room, and slammed the door behind him.

The following day was Christmas, and Todd had not made any appearance in the morning. Hoping his absence was a sign that a quiet arrest had been made in the dead of night – that he was at this moment on his way to a ship that would carry him back to England, to Newgate, to the gallows – and sorry she could not have witnessed it, Nellie asked Nathan for a moment alone in the upstairs sitting room, where she casually asked him about her "old friend Mr. Todd" (she refused to do him the dignity of calling him Sergeant) before the start of Christmas morning services, which were to be held in the library and presided over by a minister friend of Nathan's.

"He's gone," Nathan answered her query, avoiding her eyes, his tone clipped.

A pleasant thrill of triumph rippled through her. "Gone?" she repeated, glad that she managed to prevent her voice from quivering with triumph. "Where to?"

"Back to his regiment," Nathan replied.

Nellie's heart, soaring only a moment ago, sank like lead. The best she could hope for was that this was a cover-up, that Nathan wanted to save face by denying Todd's arrest. It couldn't look good for him, that he'd so ardently supported a multiple murderer; he had to be embarrassed…"Back…but why?" she asked.

"Perhaps you can tell me," said Nathan, his voice uncharacteristically bitter. "You know him far better than I do."

He still wasn't looking at her, and Nellie was getting a distinct feeling that something was wrong between them, something she wasn't aware of. To her knowledge, she hadn't done or said anything amiss. The idea that she'd offended or hurt him distressed her, and she was surprised by this. For the moment, though, her prime concern was finding out what exactly had become of Todd. "I've no idea why he'd go back to his regiment, dear."

And then, to her horror, Nathan said, "Perhaps it has to do with you, and your former…_acquaintance_."

The harsh sarcasm with which he spoke the last word went through Nellie like a barbed arrow. Todd had threatened…he wasn't above carrying it out…"I don't know what you mean, dear," Nellie said innocently.

Then Nathan's gray eyes lifted and met hers, and they were so full of pain and sorrow and anger, the sight made Nellie's breath catch in her throat. _That bloody bastard…he told him after all…_

"Let us not play with words anymore, then," said Nathan, and he withdrew a folded paper from his pocket and tossed it onto a marble-topped table before one of the settees. Nellie reached for it – cursing herself that her hand was trembling – and when she picked it up she found that it was a folded envelope. Heart thudding madly, she lifted the flap and removed the paper inside. It was a single sheet, and she recognized the strong, fluid handwriting of the barber.

_My dear Captain Beaumont,_ the letter began – and oh, she could sense the sarcasm in those words, seeping out of the very ink – _Please accept my gratitude for your very great hospitality. Most unfortunately, however, I regret that I am unable to remain in your gracious plantation home for the duration of time for which I was invited. I am a soldier at heart – _Professional bloodletter, more like, thought Nellie – _and I find that as I enjoy the comforts of your home, my mind cannot help but wander to the comfort of my fellow soldiers. Many of them have no warm place in which to spend their leave, and as a man to whom they look for leadership, I cannot justify seeing to my own satisfaction while they remain hungry and cold. I feel I must share their lot. _

Nellie's mouth fell open. Did she actually discern sincerity in those words – did Todd truly care about the situation of his men? She doubted that was the real reason for his departure, but the tone of his words had a genuine ring nonetheless. She remembered how he'd spoken of the trusties in prison; they seemed the only men for whom he'd developed anything like trust or concern…could he have done the same with the soldiers in his regiment?...It seemed impossible. The man cared for nothing and no one, he had no heart, no soul; it had been blasted out of him, that fact had been proven to her once and for all on that last night on Fleet Street when he'd torn her heart out…

And, she found as she read on, he was trying to tear it out all over again.

_I cannot say what a joy it was to see my old friend Eleanor again. If I might be so bold as to say it, sir, I could not help but take note of the affection between you, though you both assuredly acted with discretion. How well I recall our too-brief acquaintance in London. She is a woman of rare quality – _Nellie barely suppressed a snort at that – _and it caused me a very great disappointment when the days of our happy affection came to an end at last._

Dear God, she could _see_ him, sitting at the little writing-desk in his room by the light of a single candle, the whole house asleep, shadows flickering across his features, smirking and chuckling to himself as he penned all this rubbish…

_Though I must confess my own heart wounded, believe that I wish you every happiness. Know too that I will remember you on the field of battle._ In spite of her rage towards Todd, Nellie had to choke down a swell of amusement at this last sentiment. She knew _exactly_ what Todd would be thinking about Beaumont – and about her as well, come to that – as he carved a swath of death and mayhem across the American landscape. After this, only the curt signature remained: _Yours, S. Todd._

Nellie cleared her throat softly and re-folded the letter, slowly and carefully replacing it in its envelope, her movements deliberate, giving her mind an anchor. Why couldn't the man just leave her the bloody hell alone?...

Nathan was standing by the window, facing her, his eyes like cold steel. "Well?" he said.

"Well what, dear?" said Nellie casually, replacing the envelope on the marble-top.

"Do you have an explanation for what he says about – " He broke off, drew a deep breath. He could barely get out the words. "About knowing you before?"

Nellie cocked an eyebrow. She had to tread carefully; a man with Nathan's notions of ideal womanhood would not understand even a brief dalliance, and certainly not the kind of long and torrid involvement she and Todd had indulged. She sighed and looked to the rug at her feet. "He makes it sound rather coarse, doesn't he?" she said sadly.

Nathan's face was reddening, and he spoke through his teeth as he said, "Was he your – " He broke off again. Nellie strongly suspected he wanted to ask _"Was he your lover?"_ and couldn't bring himself to pronounce the last word.

"No," she answered, looking directly into his eyes. "He was only ever a friend. He did some work for my uncle and he took a fancy to me. I suppose he imagined I returned his affections. He was always rather cross after he found out that I didn't. I'm not surprised he'd say something like this, trying to convince himself he meant more to me than he ever did. He's probably seething that any other man might have me when he couldn't. He's actually a bit unstable, you know," she finished, sounding regretful.

"I saw the way he was looking at you, Eleanor."

"Well I'm sure, but – "

"Why do you think I gave him that first waltz?" Nathan hissed, advancing a step. "I'm not a stupid man. I saw his eyes when you came downstairs. I wanted to see you together, and when you were dancing I saw…I saw the way you looked at him. Everyone was talking about it."

That made Nellie's heart stop. "What?"

"People were tittering behind their hands all night. Their eyes were fastened on Todd, they were watching his every move; and they were watching you because you were the most beautiful woman there; and they were whispering what a fine couple you made and how much it looked like you might be in love."

He was close to tears, Nellie could hear it in his voice. "Oh for heaven's sake, darling, I thought you were above gossip – "

"Did he ever court you?"

"Well as I said, he certainly tried."

"How many suitors have you had, Nellie?"

The question threw her; but she couldn't say it wasn't expected. God in heaven, if he only knew…Though she could honestly tell him she hadn't had all that many. A few blokes had come calling before Albert, all of whom she'd rejected for reasons she could no longer recall; the later men who'd made up her clientele could hardly be called suitors; and Todd…well, he was in a unique category altogether. So she said, "Oh, I've had my share, I suppose. Nothing beyond the ordinary."

Nathan smirked. "I find it difficult to believe that a woman such as you would have had no serious suitors in all her life."

She saw a way out, and seized it, her voice rising as she said, "I don't know what you want from me. You seem bent on my having suitors, but if I told you I had you'd go to pieces. And what does it matter, Nathan, so long as I'm with you now?" He opened his mouth to answer, but she cut him off with a jerky wave of her hand. "Don't give me your code of chivalry tripe, just tell me what it would really matter, not to a tradition but to _you_."

He roared his response: "It matters because my stomach churns at the thought of any other man ever touching you!"

She refused to match his tone, but crossed her arms and calmly said, "Well what would you do if I told you I'd been married before?"

She instantly regretted this tactic. The blood visibly drained from Nathan's face and he swayed slightly where he stood. Nellie feared for a moment that he might lose consciousness. "Were you?" he choked out.

With a speed cultivated through years of necessity, Nellie calculated in less than an instant the benefits and risks involved in answering his question. A previous marriage might distress Nathan; but it also might satisfy his suspicion that she'd had suitors in the past, with an utterly legitimate result. A marriage's stability would keep her impervious (in Nathan's eyes) to scandalous liaisons. Widowhood was a bonus, since in his high opinion of her Nathan would, Nellie was willing to wager, assume that she'd led a proper life of austere chastity since her bereavement, as befitted a respectable widow. Pausing only a moment after deciding to chance this approach, she finally said, "Not long. Five or six years. Been widowed the past twelve, thirteen."

She held her breath awaiting his reaction. He stood staring at her for a few moments as though he'd never seen her before, blinking as if a strong light was shining into his eyes. He stumbled to the settee and fairly collapsed onto it, the whole time never looking away from her, his jaw hanging open in evident shock. Heat flushed Nellie's skin as she thought she might have made the wrong choice, wondered if she'd just spelled her own doom.

An hour seemed to pass before Nathan finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "Are you telling me the truth?"

She nodded. "Well? I was a widow when you met me and you didn't mind."

"I didn't know."

"But it was a fact nonetheless. Does finding it out now change anything? Does knowing it change who I am, or who you are?"

He bowed his head, shaking it slowly back and forth, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, looking for all the world like a penitent confessing some grievous sin. "I was half-mad when I read that letter," he said. "I can't even describe what came over me…"

Now she allowed herself a deep, satisfying breath. Her decision had been sound after all; the gamble had paid in her favor, to her immeasurable relief. She was spared; Todd's effort to destroy her position in Beaumont's affections had been thwarted, and she laughed inside as she stepped around the table and settled herself beside Nathan, placing a soothing hand on his back.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" he asked, consternation in his voice.

She shrugged. "Didn't think it was important, really. Are you angry?"

He shook his head brusquely, a red tinge beginning to creep back into his cheeks. "Not with you."

"With whom, then?"

He glared at the envelope lying before him on the marble-top. "If I could find a way, I'd call that man out."

Nellie didn't understand what he was saying. Her brow furrowed. "Call out?..."

Nathan looked at her abruptly, as though just remembering she was there. "Oh," he said casually, "that's our way of saying 'challenge'."

"Challenge to what, dear? I'm afraid I still don't know what you mean."

"Why, to a duel."

Nellie couldn't quite believe what she'd heard at first, though what she thought Nathan had said conjured up quite a vivid image in her imagination…Gray, chilly dawn in a misty clearing, Todd and Beaumont facing each other, circling, sabers drawn…"A duel?" she repeated. "You mean, with swords and…and all that?"

"As a gentleman I'd allow that cad to choose the weapons," said Nathan; "but yes, you've got the right idea."

Nellie swallowed. "Whatever for?!"

Nathan's brow furrowed in confusion, as though he couldn't understand why she should need to ask. "He besmirched your honor. Writing trash like that" – he jerked his head towards the envelope – "about a widowed woman. Making you sound like a common – well, making it sound as if you were carrying on with him while you were supposed to be mourning your husband. It's disgraceful, and if he'd made it public I would have every justification to call him out for it."

Nellie stared agape at this passionate pledge of defense of an "honor", as he'd put it, that she did not in fact possess. The trust and faith she saw in his clear gray eyes made her feel as though her soul was being stripped bare before his gaze. Heat surged through her – not a comforting warmth, but a castigating blaze that sought out corners of her heart that had lain in shadow so long she'd forgotten they existed. She couldn't define and didn't understand her own feelings in that moment, because she wasn't certain she'd ever felt them before – or if she had, it was so long ago as to render those feelings alien to her. She couldn't meet Nathan's eyes anymore and shifted her focus to the edge of his beard. "You would do that?" she asked softly. "You'd kill a man…for _that_?"

He spoke not a word, but his steady, scorching gaze answered her: he would kill a man for much less where she was concerned, in order to preserve the ideal of her that he'd built in his own mind. Impulsively, her hand shot out and grasped his hair at the scalp and she pulled him into a deep kiss more fervent than any she'd yet given him. She sensed his surprise in a quick stiffening of the muscles beneath his jacket, but it was only a moment before he responded, drawing her close, taking his lips from hers only to cradle her head against his shoulders and bury his face in her neck.

"Your husband was a fortunate man," he whispered. "I envy him."

A corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile. "What will you do," she murmured against his earlobe, "if you ever see Todd again?"

He sighed. "Well, killing him might be uncalled for. But I'll take him to task, I assure you of that."

Her smile widened. She was glad Nathan couldn't see her face, else he would certainly wonder why she looked so satisfied in that moment. "Taking him to task" – that, she thought, might be enough.

All that remained now was to collar Braithwaite and demand an explanation for his negligence in letting Todd go.

**************

The day after Christmas gave her this chance. Ten o'clock found Nellie pacing Beaumont's study, walking figure eights like a beast in a zoo cage, glancing at the mantel clock every few seconds in anticipation of Braithwaite's arrival. She'd found a slip of paper at the bottom of her door this morning, a summons from the Englishman, requesting a meeting. He was due to arrive in – she consulted the clock again – exactly ten minutes. Here, she thought, was a chance to finally learn the truth of what Braithwaite had done about Todd. She heaved an impatient sigh and stepped to the window, looking out over the garden slumbering under its blanket of white.

She'd increasingly felt the weight of Christmas Eve's events over the past twenty-four hours; but only now, with time alone, cornered by the silence within and the stillness without, was Nellie's mind able to dwell on what had transpired that night. And she didn't much like the thoughts that pressed in on her, unwanted, like irritating relatives dropping in unannounced and insisting on being entertained. _Bugger._

She'd been so sure she'd prepared herself for the sight of him. She'd planned the scene since September, imagined it countless times. But the real event proved a very different matter. When she'd seen the flesh-and-blood Todd from the top of the stairs…no amount of daydream-planning could have prepared her for that. She hadn't expected the chilly weakness that overcame her when she saw his dark tousled head in that anonymous of people – it hadn't once crossed her mind that her heart might plummet that way, as if she were falling from a very great height, nearly causing her knees to buckle and her nerve to fail. She hadn't ever suspected that she might feel those insidious tremors in her limbs, as though she wasn't on the landing of the grand stair in the bright, warm house, but standing out in the dark, frozen cotton fields, stark naked, shivering madly and blue with cold. She certainly hadn't thought it would be so hard to draw breath.

She'd nearly backed out and returned to her room, planning to feign illness when Nathan expressed concern, as he surely would. And when that thought entered her mind, she realized the extent of her weakness and hated herself for it. _I'll be bloody dead,_ she thought, _before I'm afraid of Sweeney Todd._

So she'd descended the stairs and faced him, and decided to take delight in tormenting him in any way possible while she had the opportunity. Taking him, figuratively, by the scruff of his neck and rubbing his face in the fact that she was not as miserable as he'd hoped. She'd gloried in the look on his face when he first saw her – as though he was seeing Lucifer himself coming down those stairs – she'd screamed in triumph inside when he'd bent to kiss her hand because she'd made sure he had no other option – she'd reveled in the fact that he'd been forced into that waltz, and by Nathan nonetheless –

In the quiet of Beaumont's study, remembering all this, she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, as though this action would somehow squeeze the memory from her mind. She didn't want to remember that waltz, no – it had been so like the others…She'd forced herself, while in his company, to remember her purpose; but when she saw his eyes when he asked if she'd been abused by her guards in Newgate….She could only remember being so shocked twice in her life: the first when Benjamin Barker had been found guilty at his trial, and the second when he'd walked through her door, against all hope, an older and wiser and crueler man, fifteen years later. The rage and anxiety and genuine concern she'd seen in his eyes, and the way his voice had faltered, when he'd asked _"Did they violate you?"_ had pulled her feet right out from under her. In that moment she saw something he only rarely displayed, something she'd seen occasionally back in London, when she would catch him staring at her, just before he looked away and went too conspicuously back to drinking his ale or cleaning his razor; something she'd be able to glimpse when she opened her eyes during their lovemaking to find him gazing at her before quickly snapping his own eyes shut. When he'd spoken her name, she heard something in his voice that she'd never thought she'd hear again, not from him; and it had confounded her. For the first time, she thought she'd made a mistake in handing him over to Braithwaite. She was even sorry for it.

And it was _that_ feeling that had brought her back to her senses. It was that thing she'd seen in his eyes and heard in his voice that he'd taken from her and destroyed forever, that final night on Fleet Street. It was that dastardly theft that made her retribution necessary. When she realized this, the old pain and fury swelled back upon her and she walked into the ballroom on Nathan's arm, glad for what she'd arranged with Braithwaite, eager to be shot of the barber once and for all.

And now, she thought, arranging her mouth into a small, self-satisfied smile and telling herself to be glad – now she _was_ shot of him. That mighty master of life and death, as he fancied himself – she'd brought him low, and she was the one still standing while Todd would soon be lying in a pauper's grave – perhaps the same pit the authorities had shoveled his beloved bloody Lucy into, and wouldn't that just be fitting, wouldn't that just be perfect and precious because that was where he always wanted to be in the first bloody place, oh yes, he'd rather be dead with his mad wife than living and breathing with Nellie Lovett, rather have his eyes weighted down with cold clay than look on her every day for the rest of his life –

The swift and sudden opening of the door caught Nellie unaware, scattering her silent invectives against Todd like so many dead leaves, setting her heart racing in surprise. Braithwaite was propelling his large frame through the door, his florid face lit with a smile beneath his walrus moustache, eyes squinting so tightly they seemed mere slits above his apple-round cheeks. He blustered a greeting Nellie could barely make out, gestured her to a chair, and immediately proceeded to help himself to two bourbons from Beaumont's cabinet, handing Nellie one when they were poured. Nellie knew that Nathan had given Braithwaite the use of his study for the duration of his stay; still, she was a bit nonplussed to see him going about as if he owned the whole plantation.

"Well!" said Braithwaite, moving behind the desk and settling his bulk into Nathan's chair, making it creak in a way it never had when the captain used it. The smile never left his face as he went on. "Mrs. Lovett. We meet at long last, eh?"

"Careful there, dearie," she warned quietly, not bothering to employ her fake accent with someone who knew her true identity. "These walls might have ears."

He dismissed her concern with a wave of his beefy hand. "Everyone's gone on the sleigh ride. Didn't you know?"

"'Course I knew," said Nellie indignantly. "Got my invitation right after readin' your note. Begged off with a ragin' headache."

"Yes, well, that's how I knew it would be safe to speak with you here."

"I highly doubt the slaves are on the sleigh ride," said Nellie. She still didn't completely trust the confidentiality of any conversations held within the house – not since Minerva had threatened to find out what she was up to.

But Braithwaite merely waved off her remark, as though any slaves who might be about the place must be deaf or stupid. "So," he said, clasping his hands and leaning forward with his forearms on the desk. "Mr. Danforth in Boston is eager for a report. What have you been able to discover about Beaumont?"

Sudden indignation welled up in Nellie at this reminder that she was merely a tool of the British Crown. She propped one ankle on the opposite knee and rattled off, idly running her fingertip along the rim of her glass: "Nathan Develin Beaumont, captain, CSA. Unmarried. Attended West Point military academy, graduated twelfth in his class. Grandfather fought at Valley Forge with George Washington, father Major William Beaumont established this plantation. Likes pheasant, likes his bourbon, and enjoys an occasional pipe in the evenin's." She winked. "Not bad to look at, either. Next time you talk to Mr. Danforth in Boston, thank him for me."

She suppressed a grin – Braithwaite's affable smile was now gone and he was glaring at her, little slashes of light glinting between his screwed-up eyelids. "Mrs. Lovett. Your presence in this house is no laughing matter, I can assure you."

"No indeed," she countered, "and neither is Sweeney Todd."

She could tell she'd taken him off-guard by the rapid blinking of his eyes, like a spasm across the top half of his face. "What – what's he got to do with anything?"

"Sweeney Todd, barber of disrepute, lately of London. Surely you've heard of him."

"W – yes, but – "

"Is he in irons? On a train bound for the coast?"

Braithwaite swallowed, looked away, pointlessly shuffled papers. "No."

Nellie went still. Her finger stopped its rotation on the glass rim, and she knew she wasn't breathing but somehow couldn't do a thing about it. "No," she repeated. "That's right. And why is that?"

"You see, Mrs. Lovett," said Braithwaite, gesticulating with his thick fingers like a magician about to work some sleight-of-hand, "Todd's membership in the Confederate military…complicates things somewhat."

Nellie didn't wait for the man to explain what he meant by that. She was leaning forward herself now, one finger tapping menacingly on the surface of the desk, peering into Braithwaite's face. She thought she saw him recoil slightly. "Now you listen here," she said, her voice now drawing strength and volume from the anger bubbling up within her. "One o' the things I was told to do when the bloody government sent me over here was to keep an eye out for Sweeney Todd, and let it be known if I found him. That's what I did. I put him right into the palm of your sweaty little hand, and now you're tellin' me it was just so you could have a bloody drink with the bastard?!"

"Please understand, Mrs. Lovett," Braithwaite sputtered. "You're an intelligent woman. You can easily imagine what would happen to the potential alliance with the CSA if we were to extradite one of its officers! It would be a…well, it might prove a minor international incident!"

Nellie shook her head slowly, unable to believe what she was hearing. "You've got to be jokin'…"

"Todd has joined the army of a foreign state. That effectively makes him America's responsibility."

"So bloody turn him in to Jefferson Davis!"

Braithwaite's eyes were wide open now, and they were hard and cold. "Believe me, there's nothing I'd like more than to see Sweeney Todd swing from a gibbet. But I am in a very difficult position!"

"I thought there was no more alliance. The Emancipation Proclamation – "

"There are some of us," said Braithwaite darkly, "who like to keep our prospects open. Now, there is a very good chance that Todd will be killed in this war. If a bullet or a shell doesn't get him, he'll likely die of a camp disease." He put up a finger with each point he made, as though ticking off items on a list. "Dysentery and syphilis are good probabilities. Barring any of that, he'll be captured and taken to a Union prison, and _that_ will finish him off if nothing else does. Let the war do justice on Sweeney Todd, Mrs. Lovett. There is little other choice."

Nellie, shocked speechless, settled back into her chair once again, trying to understand what Braithwaite was doing. Wars were terrible things, but plenty of men did survive them. Todd's death in action was far from a certainty, and a gamble she hadn't thought the law would be willing to make. And as far as creating a "minor international incident", that was just plain nonsense. If Braithwaite had political qualms about shipping Todd back to England, it would be easy enough for a man of Braithwaite's position to have him eliminated by some quieter means. Nothing the man had just said made any sense.

And then the thought came to her – equally nonsensical, at first appearance – that Braithwaite was trying to _protect_ Sweeney Todd. Nellie Lovett had lived quite a life and seen a lot of things, and had become expert in three activities: making a damn good meat pie, sculpting the truth to suit her needs, and assessing people and their motives with a glance and less than five words of conversation. At this moment, her instincts were screaming that Braithwaite wasn't telling the whole story. He was trying to keep the former barber out of trouble, away from a tussle with the law. _What reason would he possibly have to do that?..._

"Now enough about Todd," Braithwaite went on. "Let us discuss your _primary_ responsibility. I will ask you once more: what have you found out about Beaumont?"

Nellie sat back, dropped her eyes, and sighed. The subject was far from dropped in her own mind; but for the time being she thought it expedient to make Braithwaite happy. "Well he'd like to be buildin' his own ruddy armada. I don't know how this war ain't breakin' his whole bloody fortune. He's requested three more ironsides and…" Here her brow furrowed, and her eyes flicked back to Braithwaite's. "Some blasted contraption what can go under water."

At this, Braithwaite visibly started as though ready to jump from his seat, and his eyes revealed themselves from their fleshy squint. "Oh?"

"Yeah. It's meant to sneak up on Union ships and blow 'em out o' the water without seein' what's comin'. Brilliant, really. First you've heard of it?"

"Why, yes." He assumed a thoughtful aspect, and spoke as if thinking out loud. "The Union has nothing like this…it could turn the tide of the entire war, if it works…definitely could turn the tide…" He snapped abruptly out of his musing and addressed Nellie again: "Well done, I must say, Mrs. Lovett, well done indeed. Do you have any plans of this vessel?"

A slow smile spread across Nellie's features. "Had two copies made, dearie, just in case they were asked for. I can send 'em on to you in Richmond if you like."

"Yes," he answered – Nellie thought she heard an excitement in his voice that he was striving mightily to hide. "Sending them might be best. It would look rather suspicious if I were to walk off the property with a great tube tucked under my arm…Do you think you can post them safely, without detection?"

"I'll figure somethin' out."

He regarded her with a sly expression. "Yes, I've no doubt that you will. Now – is there anything else you can tell me? Men he's connected with, that kind of thing?"

Her instincts made themselves heard again, and she took a sip of her bourbon to buy some time to formulate her answer in jus the right way. "Well, most of his cronies are workin' with him on the same things, throwin' their own private money into boats and guns. Nathan ain't near the almighty bloke everyone seems to think he is. I mean, it ain't like Jefferson Davis comes over once a week for tea." Then she played her trump card: "He couldn't even get anyone important to listen to him about freein' the slaves."

Braithwaite reacted in exactly the way she'd hoped: he sat up ramrod-straight, gripped the arms of his chair, and said _"What?!"_

"Oh yeah," she said, her voice as annoyingly casual as she could make it. "He proposed freedom to slaves for three years' military service."

Braithwaite was gaping. _"Military service?!"_

She chuckled. "Can you imagine? But now it's a useless point anyhow. And he was _so_ countin' on that help from Canada, and it won't come now. Unless, o' course, there are other blokes like you who – what was your phrase? – like to keep their prospects open."

She sipped her bourbon again, watching Braithwaite under her lashes. He'd gone ghastly white and was staring at her, motionless, his jaw slightly agape. Then suddenly he collected himself and began shuffling papers on the desk. "I don't know where Beaumont got such a ridiculous idea," he said – and Nellie didn't miss the nervousness churning beneath his harsh tone – "but there is no army at Canada's border. Such rumors can cause no end of trouble; wars have been lost on less…"

Nellie smiled. She'd led him exactly where she wanted him. "I believe I said the captain was lookin' for help from Canada. I don't recall sayin' anything about an army, especially not one standin' on the border."

Braithwaite stopped shuffling, and his head snapped up.

"You said there _is_ no army at the border," Nellie went on mercilessly. "I take that to mean they're still there, in spite of the chillier relations between the CSA and the Crown? What exactly are they waitin' for? – "

At that, Braithwaite rose so abruptly that he knocked back the chair he'd been sitting in. "Look here," he said, the smallness of his voice sharply contrasting his bullish attitude, "you are not to interfere in affairs of state. You are to observe Beaumont's actions and correspondence and report accordingly. Otherwise it will go very ill for you. Very ill indeed."

Nellie didn't even bother pretending to be cowed. "Duly noted," she said, and polished off her drink, set it on the desk, and rose as though to leave. "I'll get those underwater boat plans for you," she added on her way to the door – then stopped with her hand on the knob. "If you'll do somethin' for me in return."

Braithwaite let out a stunned bark of laughter. "You really are an inordinately arrogant woman! You're in no position to make demands of me! I shouldn't think I'd need to remind you that you are owned, quite literally, by the Crown, and that your continuing existence depends upon doing as you're told!"

She sighed. "Right. That's a shame. It's gonna take some doin' to get those plans out o' this house. Might prove difficult, if not downright risky…And I'm sure Captain Beaumont would be overjoyed to hear about that army still bein' there…"

Braithwaite drew a long breath through his nose. "I would to God that Edington had let you hang, damn you. Very well. What do you want?"

"I want you to find out what become of the boy what come over here with me. Toby Ragg."

Braithwaite, calmer now, drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the desk. "Yes, I recall there was something about a boy…"

"Danforth sent him to an artillery company from…oh, bloody hell…Rowe? Rose?...Somethin' or other Island…"

"Rhode Island?"

"That's the one."

Braithwaite nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

He turned away from her then and stooped to right the chair, and she understood herself to be dismissed. Somewhat satisfied with the meeting's ultimate outcome, though still chafing at the escape of Todd, she stepped out into the hall. She was just wondering whether Nathan should indeed be the man she ought to be spying on, when she saw a slave leaving the room next to the study.

She wouldn't have thought twice about this, except for the fact that the man's attire announced him as a field hand. And what cause, thought Nellie, would a field hand have to be upstairs in the house, in the room beside the study?

"Bugger," she whispered aloud.

****************

Being back in the regiment, among men of his own kind, Todd felt he could breathe again. But he was restless, eager to move out despite the knowledge that he would be marching north in the freezing cold, over frosty, icy ground, in shoes whose soles were wearing thin. Conditions in the barracks were crowded, and he longed to breathe free again. He also sorely needed a distraction. There was very little to occupy his mind in the barracks, and the idle space was filled in ways he didn't much like at all. He frequently caught himself seeing Lovett in his mind's eye, the way she'd looked on Christmas Eve. Too often he found himself unwillingly remembering how warm she'd felt in his arms during their single waltz, how boldly she'd confronted him, how her eyes had burned with undisguised malice. He saw plainly that she hated him for what he'd done to her. Yet there had been a moment, when he'd spoken her name, when he'd seen something else in her eyes, and just then it was as though nothing had ever gone wrong between them. These recollections filled him with an unwanted longing that sickened him and made him despise himself; and the memory of seeing her with Beaumont, vibrant and alive in defiance of his attempts to make her suffer, caused his blood to run hot, made him murderous for reasons that were new to him. So he'd written that letter to the captain in the hope that the man wasn't as stupid as he seemed and would cast Lovett out for wanton indiscretions in her past. He seemed the type to do so.

The only problem was, Todd himself wasn't certain of his own motive in writing that letter. He told himself it was because of his mission to make her life miserable; but there was something else, something he tried to ignore, to lock away, but couldn't quite manage to do so…a black roiling mass in his chest that squeezed his heart like a winepress when he thought of her enjoying happiness with any man at all – not necessarily or specifically Beaumont.

Todd didn't know, of course, how the letter had been received – nor did he want to. When he sealed that envelope he proverbially washed his hands of the whole affair. He was done with her now, for good. He had more important priorities, he told himself, than wasting his energies pursuing Lovett's torment.

Of all the soldiers in his direct command, Mary Johnson was the only one staying in the barracks. He'd discreetly asked her how she was getting on, having to disguise her true identity in such close quarters with men; and she'd raised an eyebrow and said with open amusement that she'd been successful to this point, long before Todd ever came along. She'd then asked him all about Beaumont's plantation, her eyes wide over the brim of her battered tin coffee cup, like a child hearing of foreign wonders she knew she'd never experience herself. Todd had described it all in an offhanded way, until she'd asked incredulously why on earth he'd left so soon. So he offered the same explanation he'd given Beaumont: he wanted to be with his men. He couldn't very well tell her that he'd been nearly driven mad by the mere thought of Nellie Lovett being under the same roof, in a room just down the hall from his own – that he'd spent a sleepless night seeing her in his mind, because he knew exactly how she looked, lying asleep on her back with one arm thrown onto her pillow, her breathing deep and even through slightly parted lips. He couldn't tell Mary Johnson that the knowledge that Lovett was alive was pulling at something deep inside him, something that always existed but was rousing itself after a forced sleep, like an animal waking from sedation.

He could hardly tell himself all these things. Yet they insisted on prodding at his mind, and he knew that the only way to silence them was to get back on the battlefield, where he and his accursed thoughts belonged.

The barracks consisted of a motley crew. Most men having families to spend holiday leave with, the regiments were mixed, and Todd found himself sharing temporary living space with soldiers from all over the South. One of these, at this particular moment, was of special interest to him. Three days after he'd arrived at the barracks, Johnson had walked up to him beaming and holding a square piece of paper in her hands. "Look," she said, offering the paper to him. "It's Eddie."

Todd found himself looking at a rather good drawing of a young man in uniform, looking face-on to the viewer and grinning boyishly. His brow furrowed. "Your brother, is it?" he said.

Johnson nodded enthusiastically. He'd never seen her so happy. It was as though she had her brother back alive again. "There's a real life artist here, from the 19th Alabama. He's drawin' portraits from descriptions, and he ain't chargin' a cent. Says he wants to give somethin' to his fellow men to remember their loved ones, if they've got no pictures."

Todd studied the image. It really was very well made, so much so that he could imagine paying a great deal of money for it. "He did this just from your description?"

"Yep."

"And it's a good likeness, is it?"

Johnson smiled at the drawing. "It's like he was standin' right in front of me," she said.

An idea took hold in Todd's mind then, and he wasted no time in acting on it. "Show me where he is," he said; and Johnson obliged.

The artist was a jolly-looking chap, going about his work with a broad grin and nodding as his current customer spoke in hushed tones. Todd waited, observing. He didn't know how much time had passed before the artist finally, with a satisfied expression, handed off his work. The soldier who received the drawing stared at the paper for a long moment before saying "That's Ma and Papa all right," and shook the artist's hand. When he rose to leave, Todd stepped up and settled himself on the camp stool the man had just occupied.

"Well!" said the artist cheerfully, in a drawl more sophisticated than Todd had expected. "No need to ask your name, friend. I'm honored." Extending his hand, he added, "Name's Jim Grady, sergeant in the 19th Alabama. Everybody calls me Slim."

Todd could well believe this, looking at the man's practically emaciated frame. He shook Grady's hand in silence.

"Well now," said Grady, pulling a sheet of paper from a weather-beaten satchel and fixing it to a thin board on his lap. "Who am I drawing for you?"

Without hesitation, Todd answered, "My wife."

Grady smiled. "Nice to have someone waiting back home, ain't it?"

"She's dead."

The artist's smile vanished, and he appeared genuinely distressed at this news. "Aw, I'm sorry, friend."

"If I fall," said Todd, "I want her face to be the last thing I see."

Grady nodded solemnly. "I'll do my very best for you, I can promise you that. I'd like to know her name."

Todd paused a moment, hesitant to pronounce his wife's name lest he reveal more emotion than he wanted this man to see. "Lucy," he whispered.

He'd said it so low, he was afraid he'd be asked to repeat it. But Grady nodded, took up his charcoal, and said, "I'll need you to describe her exactly as you see her in your mind. Start with the first thing you see and just go on with whatever comes to you. Correct me if I'm getting anything wrong."

So Todd began, and Grady's hand went flying over the paper, brows knit, eyes blazing with concentration as though in a kind of trance. Unlike the last drawing he'd done, he did not smile, but wore an expression of intense, anxious seriousness. Todd did indeed see the need to correct him on several points, and the man instantly made the change without any outward acknowledgment that he'd heard what Todd had said. "No, the chin is wrong," Todd said…"The cheekbones need to be higher…the hair needs more curl just there…the eyes aren't quite right…"

Todd felt as though he was being drawn into the artist's own almost spellbound state of mind, losing all sense of time and all awareness of his surroundings as he and Grady worked as one to create the cherished image. As he verbally guided the artist's hand, Todd felt a stirring of emotion he hadn't allowed himself in a very, very long time; and that long-neglected passion drove his description. At last, Grady's hand stopped and he let out a tremendous breath, as though his very lungs had stopped functioning while he accomplished his task. He sat back, staring at the picture as though someone else had drawn it, and shook his head. "Friend," he said, "is this your wife?"

But Todd could not answer. He too was staring at the image, but in horrified disbelief, utterly robbed of the capacity for speech.

Grady kept shaking his head, and chuckled softly. "I think I've outdone myself," he said quietly, as he handed the paper to Todd. "It's a funny thing…I can tell how a man feels about the person he describes, by the way the portrait comes out. I can see what a man was feeling while he made his description. This here…well, it's obvious you still love her very much."

Todd heard the man's words as though from a great distance, as he took the paper in shaking hands, rose from his seat, and stumbled out into the cold, sucking in the bracing air though it stabbed at his lungs like knives after the close, stuffy warmth of the barracks.

He quite literally could not believe what he was seeing. He kept staring at the portrait, as though by staring hard enough he could change its features.

"No," he breathed, the word forming hot steam in the frosty air. _How could this happen?!_

The paper was rattling in his hands. He wanted to tear it up, to take a match to it. Because the lovely face leaning slightly to the left in three-quarter profile, the untamed tresses falling along a slender neck to spill over flawless bare shoulders, were not Lucy Barker's.

They were Nellie Lovett's.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! **Please review!** :)


	15. The Taste of Rain

**A/N:** Uh, hi. I'm not dead. :D

I am so, SO SORRY for the long wait on this chapter. Thank you for not forgetting this story! I've had massive life commitments recently, major family stuff - but it's all good stuff, fortunately. But excessively time-consuming. Thanks for your patience!

Quick note: I have no idea whether there was a St. Lazarus cemetery in London in the 1860s. I made it up :)

And...it just shows how long I've been out of the loop around here - ffdotnet is once again not allowing asterisks. So settings and POVs are broken up by a solid line until I can figure out a better way.

* * *

**15**

**The Taste of Rain.**

_His chest and belly chafed against the rough blanket, the only thing between his battered body and the sandy ground. The dimness itself reeked of human waste and stale sweat, and the now too-familiar stench of blood. His back was a mass of pain, his flesh raw and oozing. He'd been whipped again, savagely – it had been a scorching day and he was parched to blistering, and he'd tried to sneak off to the drinking water before his assigned time. The wounds from his previous discipline still hadn't fully healed and had been ripped open afresh – from the way he was feeling, he wouldn't have been surprised to find he'd been flayed down to his ribs. The best he could hope for was that the wounds would get infected, and he would die. Then he regretted this thought, because death would mean he would never escape this place to make his way back home to his wife and little girl. But immediately on the heels of this sorrowful reflection, he reminded himself that, realistically, death might prove the only escape to be had, and knowing this, he welcomed the possibility. _

_He was aware that there was someone with him – he sensed a presence, beside him but behind his range of sight. He could barely see his surroundings in the sputtering lamplight in any case. He heard the sound of water – sloshing in a bowl, then pouring out, as though being wrung from a towel. It was a refreshing, welcome sound; but he knew what it signified and braced himself –_

_The cool touch of the water on his torn flesh was agony – almost as bad as the lashing itself. He flinched and turned his head, biting down on the rough pallet he was lying on, roaring into it, sandy soil gritting between his teeth._

_"Shh…hush, darling…"_

_ It was a woman tending him, then. If she hadn't spoken he would have been able to tell from the way her hand was moving on him now, so gentle, so…loving. Her voice soothed him instantly, and her touch, though painful through no fault of her own, melted some of the resistance his muscles were mounting against her well-intended ministrations. Something deep within him responded to her presence, knew who she must be, and he swallowed back tears. Oh dear God, of all the times he'd dreamed and hoped, after all the beatings he'd received when he'd imagined she could somehow, miraculously, be there to treat his wounds.…could it really be possible that she_ was _here with him at last, helping him, caring for him…_

_"Lucy…"_

_ "Shh," she repeated. "I know it hurts, Mr. Todd. Try to keep still."_

_ Only then did he realize it wasn't his wife's voice he was hearing. And the touch was different…He turned his head, squinted into the dimness, saw in the lamplight a woman with death-pale skin and hair like black flame, her eyes dark as night, misted with tears over his suffering but strong, determined to be strong for his sake. She was leaning over him and washing his fresh scars, her expression full of love and devotion and sadness, as though she shared his pain – or wished she could. _

_ He awoke with a start, gasping, his scars burning._

_The dream had been so vivid that at first he was disoriented, and had to blink at his surroundings several times before accepting that he was in London, on Fleet Street, in his old home. As his breathing steadied, the woman at his side shifted and mumbled incoherently – he supposed she'd sensed his rough wakening in her sleep; but he could tell by the slurred, dreamlike tenor of her voice and her still-even breathing that she hadn't fully awakened. He was wrapped up in her, and she in him, legs entwined, arms encircling each other, one of his hands knotted in her hair. The first hint of morning's light was peering through the shutter slats, telling him it was time to get upstairs and prepare for another day's work. _

_ But he couldn't move. _

_Every morning before this, he'd simply opened his eyes and swung his feet easily onto the floor, dressed, and left to begin his day. Now, all he could do was stare at the face from his dream. _

_ He'd seen her this way countless times now, slumbering beside him, her skin like the sheen of a pearl in the soft gray light of dawn, lips parted, fiery tresses fanned out across her white pillow. But there was something different about her on this particular morning, and it captivated him, made him powerless to untangle himself from her embrace. It was her face as it had been in his dream, etched with compassion and strength, her hands bathing his wounds. A lone light and cool, clean water in a dark and burning hell. _

_ Her hair suddenly felt so very soft in his hand, her skin so warm against his own. _

_With a sense of fascination that had been foreign to him for what felt like a lifetime, he watched her sleep until the light advanced enough to throw shadow-stripes through the shutters and across the bedclothes. On an impulse, he bent his head and pressed his lips to her hairline, held them there for a long moment, breathing her scent. A small contented hum came from her throat as she stirred in his arms and nestled her face against his shoulder. This gesture was nothing new; she was forever trying to get closer to him in her sleep, and as pleasant as he found her company he never had any difficulty prying her off him in order to get out of bed. Now, though, he wanted to draw her in and stay that way all day long and into the night again. But that desire only pulled him back to the reality that the new day was calling, and he had to get moving or else he wouldn't open his shop at all, and opening the shop was absolutely imperative because they had a business to run and a living to earn, and – _

_And he might miss the judge. Again._

_The thought of Turpin bleeding all over his hands helped Sweeney finally wrench his gaze from his lover and began extricating himself from the tangle of her limbs. For the first time this proved to be a feat that seemed nearly beyond his power, and he hoped his movements wouldn't wake her or the resolve he'd gathered might be undone when she opened her eyes, when he heard her voice – _

_ "Where you goin'?" she mumbled, eyes still closed, voice saturated with sleep._

_ He forced himself to keep moving by gently but firmly pushing her away and twisting to sit on the edge of the bed. "Gotta get the shop ready, pet."_

_ "But it's Sunday," she protested, shuffling closer and wrapping sleep-weak arms around his waist. _

_ She was making it damned hard, but he set his jaw and remained resolutely staring at the floorboards as he forced his arm to reach for his trousers, draped over a nearby chair, and began pulling them on. And with a sting of regret that surprised him, he said, "It's Saturday, love."_

_She replied with a resigned groan and rolled over, allowing him to dress in peace. Part of him wanted her to stop him, to reach out and take his arm and pull him back to her and wrap him up with her in the blankets…but she didn't. So, somewhat regretfully unobstructed, he made his way to the door. _

_ "Be up with your breakfast in a bit, darling," he heard her call out softly, just as he was closing her door behind him. _

_ He hadn't realized how very cold it was. By the time he was halfway through the parlor, he was freezing.

* * *

_

_The shop bell rang, and his heart flared into life._

The judge!

_Or Lovett._

_ More than once, since she'd left him his breakfast with a swift peck on the cheek and swept off again with a promise to see him at lunch, he'd caught himself divided between searching the street for Turpin and checking the sounds of steps on the stairs, assessing whether they were Lovett's, listening for her breezy greeting at the door. On this particular occasion, he was between patrons, busy with sharpening a razor to distract his mind, and he damn near sliced his hand open as his head snapped up at the jangle of the bell._

_His face darkened when he saw who stood in the doorway._

_ "Mr. T, Mrs. Lovett says if you want your lunch it's ready for you in the kitchen, so come down before it gets cold."_

_ This angered him – far beyond what was warranted by such a simple, innocuous message. His hand clenched around the razor's handle and it was everything he could do not to hurl the blade in the boy's direction. "Why don't she come up her bloody self?" he growled._

_ Toby's eyes widened, as though he couldn't believe the barber was asking such an inane question. "Well, it's the noon rush, Mr. T. She's runnin' herself ragged down there, she is. Not a moment to spare."_

_ Not a moment to spare. For him. For the first time, he resented her having any occupation other than himself. He didn't understand this reaction, and it disturbed him. _

_Well, he thought as he snapped the razor shut and moved to replace it in its velvet lining, he would go down and get his blasted lunch. It might replace the scent of her that had been lingering in his nostrils since he'd left her at dawn, the taste of her that still dwelt on his lips. But the wink and the sly little smile she gave him when he got downstairs guaranteed that wasn't going to happen.

* * *

_

_The weather was turning colder and the outdoor service had come to an end. He could no longer step out onto his landing and watch her. He'd been seeing much less of her during the day than he'd become accustomed to, and the lack of her was like craving something every market in the city was out of. Trying to get cool in sweltering heat and not being able to. _

_ She brought him his tea at four, but she was in and out without a word because he was shaving a man, and she knew better than to disturb him while he was focused on his work. She simply bustled in, left the tea on the bureau, and departed. He barely even saw her from the corner of his eye; but he heard her enter, heard the rustling of her dress, her soft sigh as she set down the cup and saucer with a _clink_. He caught her scent when she disturbed the air in turning and moving briskly back to the door._

_And then she was gone, her footsteps tapping on the stairs outside, the steaming tea and the racing of Todd's heart the only signs she had ever been there._

_ He heard her through the floor at his feet, moving about, her muffled voice speaking to the boy._

_ A sharp intake of breath – a grunt of pain. "Watch yourself!" cried the man in the chair._

_ Only then did Todd notice the thin trickle of blood trailing through the white lather covering his patron's jawline. He'd nicked the bloke. Well, he certainly couldn't let him leave that way – friends noticing the cut and hearing it had been inflicted at Sweeney Todd's Tonsorial Parlor would be devastating for business._

_ "Don't worry, sir," he said pleasantly. "I'll fix that up quick."_

_ There was a small smile on his lips as he watched the man slide into hell. Seeing the glow of the bake house fires far below – her domain – only made him think of her all the more, of what she did for him down there day in and day out, rendering his deeds invisible…how she_ _devoted her whole life to helping him, meeting every one of his needs and reawakening desires he'd thought had died in him. He thought of the continuous dance they engaged in, his lead and her response; how well she complemented him, how she matched his every step so perfectly… _

_He breathed deep of the aroma rising up from the bake house, and let the trap door drift shut. Always, when he thought of her skillful disposal of the evidence, the desire to possess her rose up in him; and he felt that now – but there was something else too, something new: an ache, like a cord tugging persistently at his insides. By hell – after practically not seeing her all day, he _missed_ her.

* * *

_

_He woke with a jolt, initially bewildered by the near-total darkness and the sharp suddenness of his awakening. The sun had just been going down when he'd fallen into his barbering chair after closing the shop, tired and wanting to rest his mind after yet another day without Turpin making an appearance. He had no sense of how much time had passed since then. Glancing out the window, he noted the lack of light that indicated the street lamps had been put out. It was late, then…He cocked an ear to listen for any sounds of movement downstairs. Hearing only silence, he guessed Lovett must have already retired. Instantly his mind's eye conjured a vision of her, lying asleep in the darkness with the bedclothes loosely outlining her frame, and he wanted to be there, to be touched by the hands that had tried to take the pain away in his early-morning nightmare – he'd wanted the touch of those hands all day, he realized; had been haunted by the memory of them. _

_He would go and wake her. _

_When he rose to carry out this intention, the toe of his shoe struck something on the floor. Then he remembered: he'd taken the frame containing the photographs of his stolen family when he'd settled into the chair, and he must have fallen asleep with the pictures in his hand – as he so often did. He supposed the frame had slipped from his grasp, and the sound of it clattering to the floor must have been the thing that had startled him awake. Worried that the frame – or worse, the pictures themselves – might have come to harm when they fell from his hands, he bent to examine the damage and breathed a slow sigh of relief when he found everything in one piece. He looked once more on the face of his wife, ran a finger over her features – felt only glass, flat and cold. The images were no comfort to him – they teased him, mocked him with promise that would always remain unfulfilled, even as he cherished and treasured and worshiped them. _

_Since his return to Fleet Street the room had seemed empty, as though something vitally important was missing. The memories of the life he'd once lived there felt cold and still like a crypt of stone, and much as he willed them to comfort him, all they did was deepen the emptiness. He'd become accustomed to this feeling, but of late it had become nearly unbearable; and much as he wanted to keep those memories alive, the pain they caused him often made him wonder if the effort was worth the anguish. In the end he always decided that it was, because the anguish was all he had left. The anguish reminded him that he was alive. _

_He couldn't stand looking at the faces of his wife and daughter anymore and slowly, regretfully folded the frame closed, stepped to the bureau, and gently set the frame down._

_That was when he noticed that Lovett had brought his supper._

_She must have come in while he was sleeping, and he hadn't heard her. He touched one of the plates and found it cold, and he wondered how long ago she'd been there. _

"I know it hurts, Mr. Todd…"

_The frigid emptiness of the room was only a reflection of the man himself: a walking tomb full of echoes and shadows and blanched bones of things that once were. And yet there before his eyes was evidence of something warm and living that had been in that vast, icy space, something he'd missed because he'd been sleeping when it arrived. _

_ He asked himself what the hell he was doing still standing there, and without further hesitation he strode across the room, descended the outer stairs, and locked the door at his back. She'd left the pie shop door unbolted for him, as always; and he secured it again before crossing the space to the back hall as he did every evening. But as he drew nearer to the light spilling from the parlor door, he slowed his steps almost to a stop. Suddenly the awareness that he was about to see her struck him, and it made him uncomfortably warm, his palms damp, his breathing shallow. Such a reaction was patently absurd, he thought, because he lived with the woman, saw her every day, was on the most intimate of terms with her. But this time – he couldn't have said why – the anticipation of what he would see when he crossed that threshold made him tremble and sweat like a man trying to go off drink. _

_ When he looked into the room and found her on the settee with a book, the sight of her stopped him dead, and he felt as though the breath had been knocked out of him. He was torn between a raging need to fall upon her, and a wish to simply stand where he was and drink her in for hours. _

_ There would never be enough of her to satisfy him.

* * *

_

_Her heart began fluttering wildly the moment she heard the shop floorboards creak under his tread. She expected his nightly visits now; but no matter how often she heard his approaching footfalls her breathing never failed to catch, her skin to tingle, her pulse to gallop in anticipation of his glance, his touch. Particularly now, when she hadn't really seen him all day – she missed him terribly and had been listening for him for hours. Eventually she'd decided she might not see him tonight, he'd been so soundly sleeping when she'd left his supper; and now a thrill went through her on finally hearing his approach. The book she'd been passing the time with drooped in her hand, and she angled her head slightly, listening to his feet draw nearer across the worn wood, closing the distance to the parlor door. Nellie turned her attention there and heard his steps slow just as they reached the threshold, where he soon appeared, stopping and hovering just inside the room. His face was even more drawn than usual, his shadowed features almost gaunt, his brow creased, mouth turned down; but his eyes as he looked on her were alight, alive, burning with something Nellie didn't recognize. It wasn't desire – she knew what that looked like in him – it went beyond that, a light that gleamed and churned as though striving to tell her something he couldn't bring himself to say – or didn't know the words to use to express it. _

_ Whatever was on his mind, she would make sure he knew she was willing to hear it if he cared to let her in. She smiled and marked her place in her book, set it down on the little table by the settee. "There you are, love," she said, rising and moving to the liquor cabinet. "I was startin' to wonder. Fancy a drink?"_

_ His answer was quiet, little more than a rumbling breath. "If you're havin' one."_

_ She opened the cabinet doors and ran her eyes over the bottles, smiling a bit as she remembered a time, not so long ago, when those shelves had been empty save for a lone bottle of gin. The poor man's drink. Well, not anymore. Her gaze landed on a particular label and she said, "Got this port wine yesterday. It's the good stuff, too. Shall we christen it?"_

_ There was a pause before he replied, even softer than before: "All right."_

_ His voice was like a feather trailing up her spine, and her hand paused, fingers just touching the bottle's label. There was something new about him tonight: she'd heard it in his way of walking, in his voice, had seen it in his gaze; felt it, at this moment, in his very presence. She decided to subtly question him about it when he'd been mellowed by a glass or two of the port, and lightly cleared her throat as she took the bottle down._

_ She heard him step into the room as she chose two glasses, placed them on the cabinet's wide bottom shelf, and opened the drawer where the corkscrew was usually stored. It wasn't there. "Oh, bugger," she sighed, shoving the drawer's contents around without success. The whole time she was thus engaged she could hear him drawing nearer, slowly, deliberately – not, she noted, going to the settee to wait for his drink as he always did, but making straight for her. She shut that drawer and opened the next one, peering into it as though the corkscrew would materialize if only she stared hard enough at the spot where it ought to be. "Where is the bloody thing?" she muttered, frustrated now, practically slamming the drawer and turning her attention to the cabinet's upper shelves, stretching up on tiptoe – and there was the corkscrew, pushed into a corner. Wondering how it got there and silently cursing her stature at the same time, she reached up – _

_And suddenly he was directly behind her, a hair's breadth separating her exposed shoulder blades from the fabric of his jacket, the closeness stopping her efforts and sending __a series of flutters winging through the region just below her navel. His head leaned to her temple as he ran the backs of his fingers along her outstretched arm towards her hand, his breath ruffling her hair and his lips moving lightly against the shell of her ear._

_ "You didn't come up at noon," he said, in a low growl that took some of the strength out of her legs, as he took down the corkscrew, reached both arms around either side of her, and began opening the bottle. _

_A pleasurable chill prickled her skin, making her shudder, and she lowered herself back down onto her heels. "I'm sorry, love…you know I would have, if I could…you know how it gets down here."_

_She fell back gently against him, let her head loll on his shoulder, let her eyes drift closed, and sighed softly, "I did miss you, y'know."_

_She heard the corkscrew clatter from his hand, the bottle tip heavily and roll to the carpet at her feet with a dull _thunk_._

_She only had time to hope he hadn't yet drawn the cork when he clutched her around the waist, his fingertips scratching the hard form of the corset beneath her dress, and pulled her closer against him, sighing roughly as he nipped at her earlobe and the little sensitive hollow just below it, his hands pressing her closer till he fairly crushed the breath from her. She turned in his arms and felt him seize her hair at the scalp, pulling just enough to tilt her head upwards, taking advantage of her gasp to bring his mouth down hard on hers. She clung to him, sinking trembling fingers into his shoulders, burning and freezing inside all at once, feeling as though this man was the first who'd ever touched her. Certainly, no one had ever touched her like __this__. No one had ever held her this close, as if she was the only thing he'd ever wanted. And even when it was over, leaving her weak and shaking, the kiss didn't fully end; his lips continued resting on hers, brushing them lightly. His eyes opened, and a little crease appeared between his brows, as though he was trying to puzzle something out. _

"_What's gotten into you tonight?" she whispered, smiling._

_ His hand tightened in her hair. "Complaining, my love?"_

_ Her smile widened. "'Course not – "_

"_Shut it, then," he said, in a low murmur that softened the words, and buried her in another kiss, deep and ravenous, leaning into her so heavily that she thought he would either break her back or send them both toppling to the floor. The edge of the cabinet cut into her back but she felt it only as a feeling in a dream; the only sensation that mattered was his touch, possessing and claiming and –_

_This was what she'd always imagined it would be like to be loved._

_But when she gasped his name, he stopped and went tense. He was slipping away from her – she couldn't let him go, let this go, not after waiting so long. She called him back with sighs and kisses and her hands clenching in his hair and his shirt. But he was pulling away, slow and rigid, keeping his face turned from her…and yet there was a strain in his movement, as if he were fighting with himself – or with that dark, monstrous thing that always stood gnashing its teeth, blocking her way to him. _

_And then – she couldn't have said, later, what made her do it, what madness possessed her to risk his wrath. But before she could stop herself she was slowly lifting her hand, and by the time her fingers were resting on his cheek there was no turning back._

_ His head snapped up, his eyes burning into hers, and something like a wave of pain spasmed across his face. But he didn't turn from her gaze, and he didn't pull away._

_ "I love you."_

_Her whisper was dull, as if the very air around them was a blanket swallowing the sound. Sweeney simply continued staring at her, as though he hadn't understood what she'd said; and Nellie couldn't tell whether she was seeing fury or confusion written on his face. _

_So she said the words again. She traced the ridge of his brow, brushed his temple with her fingertips, smoothed the whiskers that lined his jaw. "I love you" – the words were a mere breath, just as she'd whispered them to him, unheard, for more than a decade and a half. Just as she'd spoken them in her dreams. Only, he did hear them this time; and this – at last – was real._

_She knew he'd heard and understood this time, because he flinched – almost imperceptibly; if she hadn't been watching him so intently she wouldn't have caught it. She also knew she'd made a terrible mistake: his eyes were going cold, he was withdrawing from her more than ever, and too quickly for her to have a hope of calling him back. Still, she tried, desperate – if she couldn't reach him this moment would be the end. "Sweeney," she said, her voice firm, her fingers tightening on his sleeves._

_He sneered like a feral beast and pried her hands off him._

"_Sweeney – "_

_In his obvious haste to get away from her, he parted from her so harshly that she stumbled and slammed her hip painfully into the cabinet. _

_She heard the shop door slam – so hard she was thankful the sound of shattering glass didn't accompany it – and drew a shuddering breath to steady herself. She wouldn't go after him. She told herself he'd be back. She had to think, to plan a way to salvage the disaster she'd wrought. For assistance in this, she reached up to the shelf where the gin stood. _

_The poor man's drink._

_She attempted to pour it into a tumbler but ended up taking a long pull straight from the bottle, because she couldn't stand the sound of the bottle tapping against the glass with the trembling of her hand.

* * *

_

_Raging through the dark, fog-shrouded London streets, gnashing his teeth, blinded by the cold pelting rain that drove into his face and sank heavily into the coat he'd automatically grabbed and shrugged into on his way out the door. The saturated wool weighed him down but he pressed on, with no destination other than __away__, as far away from her as he could possibly go. Bleeding __India__ wouldn't have been far enough. _

_The sound of his name chased after him, and the stinging rain did nothing to cool the skin that still burned where she'd touched his face. _

_ It had been so easy before this. But what had just happened moments ago…The thing that had gone through him when he'd looked into her eyes that way, more deeply than he knew was safe…He'd known in that moment that if he'd stayed one instant longer, if he'd kissed her one more time, if he'd allowed himself to hear her speak again, he would have lost himself and never been able to return. He'd seen his own face reflected in her eyes, and the only other thing that had ever frightened him so much was the pronouncement of the guilty verdict from Turpin's lips. So he'd had to run – to escape, as he'd escaped his prison sentence. _

_ Such small things. An embrace, a few kisses. Not for the first time, either. But there was a moment when he realized he never wanted it to end._

_ He'd had more than enough opportunity to stop the progress of such madness. He'd known the moment he'd seen her from the parlor door that this time would be different, in a way that thrilled even as it terrified him – he'd had the perfect chance right then to say good night and back away. Why hadn't he? Why, when he began to feel his heart leaping in his chest for the first time in more than fifteen years, when he entertained the traitorous thought that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever beheld, when he knew he was responding to her as he'd long ago responded to his wife, when he couldn't bring himself to believe she was his – why hadn't he fled at any one of those moments? _

_Why hadn't he left her before he broke his oath to never again fully trust another human being? _

_Even his fellow trusties in the colony had been guarded amongst themselves; yet he'd allowed this woman to take his heart in her hands. _

_His long, fast strides came to a halt, and he stood unmoving in the middle of the street like a man trying to get his bearings, staring into the black night, his jaw clenched like steel, and let the rain hammer into his skin. Wished it would drown him. _

"You got me now,"_ he'd told her, when she'd confided her past to him. What the hell had he meant by that?...It had the sound of a promise, a vow that he would be the one to take care of her, to provide for her so she would never again be reduced to selling her body in a fight to stay alive. He was willing to do anything to prevent her from falling into that again. And what did that mean? That he would be with her into the future, through indefinite years, to make certain the promise was kept. Through whatever remained of his life._

_ Now he asked himself whether he realized at the time that this was the meaning of his words._

_She sometimes asked him if he'd given any thought to what he would do after Turpin was dead, and he always gave her the same answer: No, he hadn't. And this was the truth. Beyond that bastard's demise was only a black void, as though Todd himself would instantly cease to exist once his overarching purpose was achieved. But this was patent nonsense. He would continue living; but to what end? How would his days be filled?...When he tried to answer this, he found that he couldn't picture his life without Nellie Lovett. She'd become such a constant presence, he could no more imagine her gone from his world than he could imagine barbering without the use of his right hand. She was a part of him now, beyond what bound them together as partners or accomplices – or even as lovers. Everything had changed – seemingly in a moment, but Todd knew better. Such things build over time; and this, new as it felt, was no exception. Like some flesh-devouring vine it had crept into him and taken root and twisted itself around his heart, until he just now noticed that it was strangling him. _

_ Standing still as a bronze statue, he realized only now that he hadn't taken a breath since charging out the pie shop door. Now he forced long, even draughts of the damp night air into his_ _lungs and told himself it wasn't love he'd felt in that moment. It couldn't be. He knew what love was; he wasn't so destroyed inside that he didn't remember it. He'd felt it for his Lucy – still did. Everything he did was for her sake, was born of his love for her. And what he felt for Nellie Lovett was not like that at all. No, what he felt for his wife – _that_was love, and its object was buried unmarked in a pauper's grave somewhere in the filth of this godforsaken city._

_His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, as though hungering to grasp her hand or catch the soft sleeve of her dress – as though such a thing were still possible. He would give anything, _anything_, he'd gladly give his own life to hold her in his arms again, just one more time, if only for an instant…But the best he could do, thanks to Turpin, was to be near the shell that had once housed her essence. And even that was impossible, because Lovett had never told him where his wife was buried, and he'd never asked. Hadn't thought he wanted to know. But now he needed to know, to be near whatever remained of her…to assure himself that something was left to prove that she'd ever existed, that his life with her hadn't been a dream all along. That he wasn't spilling all this blood for nothing. _

_Expenses would have dictated a burial close to home; and if his memory served him, the pauper's cemetery closest to Fleet Street was St. Lazarus._

_He forced one foot forward and pressed on again, blinking the driving rain out of his eyes, stumbling along crooked, pitch-dark streets. Was it round this corner? And here – down this street?...He groped down a blind alley and doubled back, hesitated on the street to get his direction. There – that little cobbler's shop (_still here after all these years? Blimey_) – surely it was somewhere near here…He broke into a dead run – slipped on slick cobblestones and_ _struggled to right himself – yes, this was the way!...His heart thumped in anticipation and he pelted on until at last he came up against the stone pillars of the cemetery gate. _

_The metal was in disrepair and he easily pushed through a gap in the bars. Breathless, his feet slipping nearly out from under him in the mud, he squinted into the darkness like a lost traveler. There were no headstones here, only little upright stone markers bearing the numbers of the mass plots. How was he to find her?...Surely he would know when he was near her resting place; surely he would feel it…He stepped forward, aimless, struggling through mud up to his ankles, casting his gaze left and right, looking for some sign, till at last his eyes lighted on one of the little markers in a far corner and a chill went through him. He felt _something_ when he looked at that marker…surely that was the place!...He made for it, and just when he came within arm's reach of the stone the ground seemed to give way – he reached out instinctively to break his fall and his hand struck the plot markers, but he found no purchase and his fingers only scrabbled against the stone and he slid into the muck._

_Lightheaded from the pounding of his heart, his disturbing encounter with Lovett and his breakneck run and the exhilaration of finding Lucy at last, he struggled to his knees and sank his fingers into the saturated earth, clawing at the mire, digging down into the grave. He was up to his elbows in slime, but the rain only poured into the hole he was making and filled it up again, pushed the mud back over his forearms…_

The first time he held her in his arms, oh it was too good to be true; he didn't deserve her and he told her so, but she only laughed…yellow hair flowing between his fingers like strands of silk…

_But all too soon that vision was replaced by the reality of dark muck oozing through his fingers, and fat worms crawling over the backs of his hands._

_His fingers opened, and the rain returned the mud and worms to the grave. _

_He blinked, coming slowly back to his senses. Bloody hell. He had no way of knowing if this was right plot. Didn't even know for certain if this was the right cemetery. _

_ Never had he felt that Lucy was so utterly lost to him; never had he felt so deprived of her presence. Since his return to London he'd been telling himself that her spirit was near, guiding him; he'd convinced himself that Lovett had been right when she'd said the place was haunted, that Lucy's ghost inhabited their old home. What a laugh. _

_He was suddenly terribly cold – not from the rain that seemed to soak into his very bones, but from a cold that blossomed deep within him. And yet only moments ago he'd been in the arms of a woman who was warm and breathing and alive, whose heart he'd felt beating as if to burst, whose voice he'd heard pronouncing his name as if it were her last word before dying. Her face came before him, illuminated by the soft glow of her parlor fire, etched with concern – he could almost feel her hand firm on his arm as she guided him in from the rain and said _"Come on, Mr. T, you need a brandy to get warm…"_ She would let him rest on her shoulder where he could inhale her scent, feel the softness of her skin against his cheek, her fingers gently, lazily playing through his hair, her voice lulling him into the nearest state to peace he was capable of achieving. _

_He stared through the rain and the darkness, in the direction of Fleet Street, as though his eyes could bore through the distance and see what – whom – he'd left behind. _

_ There was never a moment that he wasn't in pain, and when Lovett was near the pain never lessened one whit. But somehow her presence made him more able to bear it. The nightmares remained when she was lying beside him, but somehow he still managed to find sleep._

_He wondered why this was – but only for the briefest moment, because he knew the reason didn't matter. He was bound to her, and just now that was all he cared about. _

_ For the second time that night, he asked himself what the hell he was doing still standing there – standing in the cold rain like a fool when the only thing he could really call his own was waiting for him. _

_ Was it love? He told himself it couldn't be. But just at this moment, Lovett was all he wanted. It wasn't what he'd felt for his Lucy. But perhaps –_

_ Perhaps it didn't have to be._

_ Perhaps it didn't have to be stronger or deeper. Perhaps it could simply be different, as day differs from night, as the raven differs from the swan. He could no longer love in the same way Benjamin Barker had loved – but perhaps the thing coursing through him now was Todd's own version of it. _

_ He set one foot in front of the other in the direction of the cemetery gate.

* * *

_

_Through the murk he could just make out the shop, the pencil-lines of light through the shutter slats of the parlor windows. She'd gone downstairs, then…He tried the street door and it resisted him – she'd locked him out. He fished in his coat pocket for the key he always kept there (and she knew he had a key – he suspected she'd only wanted to make a point by barring the door to him), let himself in, and crossed the shop, water pouring off him in streams, his steps keeping pace with the beating of his heart, till he burst unceremoniously through the parlor door._

_ She turned instantly, her face the very icon of fury. But she too was soaking wet, her dressing gown drenched and clinging to her form, hair plastered to the sides of her face and neck._

_ She'd gone out looking for him._

"_You bloody insufferable __bastard__!" she hissed. "What the hell was that all about, leavin' me like that without a word?"_

_He could see now that her eyes were rimmed red, and he wondered how much of the water on her cheeks was rain, and how much was tears. She stood panting and livid as they faced each other in silence, the space between them alive with their pasts and their pain and their secrets and the lovemaking they'd ended two hours before. Dear God, she was so, so beautiful, standing there wrapped up in wrath, the rain glistening on her skin, her eyes blazing into him, straight through him; her dripping hair framing her face, bringing her features into clearer relief than he'd ever seen. Her arms were crossed tightly, and she was trembling – whether from rage or cold, he couldn't tell._

_ "Standin' there drippin' water all over my rugs like you own the damned place!" she railed. "Lookin' like you just crawled out of a grave somewhere!"_

If only you knew,_ he thought, and smirked._

_Apparently his sardonic reaction only fueled her rage. "Goin' out in all this for hours to catch your death o' God-knows-what!" she went on. "Get the hell out o' my house before I have to see you carried out in a hearse!"_

_ But he had no intention of getting out, and he suspected she knew it from the way he was crossing the room towards her. "The door's in the opposite soddin' direction," she said, hugging herself tighter and regarding him warily; but her softer tone did not support that sentiment. When he reached her and lifted his hands to touch her face, she jerked her head away from him. "Do you know what that did to me," she said quietly, "when you left like that? How that hurt me?"_

_ Todd himself was rather stung by her rejection, and he tried again. He didn't want to part this way for the night, because he knew if they did, things would be different in the morning – perhaps never the same again. So he reached out one more time, one hand clasping the back of her neck, the other lifting a dripping lock of hair lying across her cheek, tucking it behind her ear, trailing his fingertips along her neck, bringing them to rest on her shoulder. She allowed his touch this time, and turned her eyes back to him again, and they were full of lingering hurt and suspicion and devotion that couldn't be shaken. The only words he could find to answer her very justified question were, "I'll make it up to you," and these were whispered close to her ear because he was afraid of them._

_ She sighed deeply, resigned, and placed a hand on the sopping material of his shirt as though accepting his offer. "Can't bloody stay angry with you for long," she muttered. _

_ "You're shivering," he said._

_Her shoulders twitched in a small shrug. "Well yeah," she muttered. "Been out in the blasted flood, haven't I?"_

_ He could hear the hurt he'd inflicted still lurking in her voice, and more than anything he wanted to relieve her of it, to make it all up to her. His hand moved to take down the shoulder of her dressing gown, massaged the smooth, damp skin he'd exposed. His heart was thundering like a drum simply from being so close to her. _

_ "Come with me and get warm," he said._

_ She hesitated in her answer. "Only if you're gonna be there when I wake up."_

_ His answer was a barely-perceptible nod._

_ He was__ glad when she showed her agreement by taking his hand in hers.

* * *

_

_In his room upstairs, in the lamplight, wrapped up in his blankets, they'd both stopped shivering, drenched now with the sweat of their passion instead of rain. He was leaning over her, gazing down with eyes as hard and tormented as ever, but no longer empty. _

"_You're lookin' at me like you never seen me before," she said softly, smiling, loving him with everything she had, everything in her being._

_ He shook his head slowly, a little crease between his brows. "I haven't."

* * *

_

Rain.

The miserable stuff just wasn't stopping. Nellie was staring out at it through the drawing-room windows, knowing she ought to retreat to her room and close the shutters and pull the blankets up over her head to block out the sound, and wondering why she insisted on torturing herself like this.

Just when she thought she'd succeeded in well and truly hating that evil brute, it had to go and rain, and what he'd done to her when he left Fleet Street seemed washed away by it.

She drew a shuddering breath, feeling tears build behind her eyes. Never in her life had she felt so loved as on that night.

A small, bitter laugh sounded in her throat. And he called _her_ a liar. Just what was it that he'd done that night, when he'd fulfilled every one of her most desperate hopes, touched her and held her and kissed her and uttered her name in ways she could only ever dream of?

What an actor.

He hadn't only lied to her on the last night they saw each other in London. His lies had started long before then.

A sudden loud crash shocked her out of her thoughts and she whirled around with a startled cry. The drawing-room door had been thrown open so far it had struck the wall and was swinging slowly on its hinges from the impact, and if she didn't know better she'd have sworn that the Sweeney Todd of her troublesome reminiscence was walking into the room.

The man was drenched from head to foot, rainwater pouring from his hair and beard and sopping clothes, trailing rivulets on the rugs…he was crossing the room to her, eating up the distance with long, fast, purposeful strides…

_…he was crossing the parlor, dripping all over her rugs, his skin glistening, hair flattened down for once by the downpour, his eyes scorching her…she could see the scars on his chest through the rain-translucent fabric of his shirt… _

She could only stand gaping at him, one hand pressed to her heart, watching helplessly as her unwelcome memory came to life before her eyes. When he reached her, he took her face gently in his hands –

…_one hand clasped the back of her neck…"I'll make it up to you…"_

– and said, "Marry me."

Her knees nearly buckled. It was too much, all of this…too much…she was dreaming; any moment she would wake to a sunny morning and a steaming cup of spicy tea and Hattie pulling things from her wardrobe…The room was going fuzzy and the floor beneath her feet was turning soft and she didn't know how much longer she could withstand this. All she could do was gasp out the word "What?..."

Nathan bent his head, touched his forehead to hers. "I don't care what Minerva does anymore. I wouldn't care if she was reduced to nothing. I only want you, Nellie. I want you to be my wife."

The rainwater ran from his hair down her face, and its coolness and the solidity of his touch and the warmth of his breath on her lips told her this was no dream.

"Please, Nellie. Answer me – "

_…took a lock of hair from her face, the gentlest he'd ever touched her…_

His last word was muffled by her kiss, desperate and grasping. When she finally ended it and dropped her forehead onto his shoulder, he asked in a breathless, quavering voice, "Is that yes?"

She nodded against the coarse, wet fabric of his coat...he smelled of rain and fresh air and damp rich earth. "Yes, Nathan. I'll marry you."

_"Come with me and get warm…"_

"Take me upstairs."

Nathan blinked, clearly stunned by this request. "I – Nellie – "

"Please," she murmured, punctuating every word with a kiss to his lips, his jaw, his throat. "Please take me upstairs…"

"Nellie…don't, don't tempt me like this…"

"What is it? We're going to be married. There's no dishonor if we're to be married…"

She felt him give in, in the way he held her closer, as though he'd only been waiting for a good reason to comply. "Are you certain you want this?" he whispered against her temple.

"Yes."

"I don't want either of us to regret – "

"No regrets, my love."

He tore himself away from her so abruptly she feared he might run off; but he grasped her hand and pulled her along behind him, heading to the stairs…

_…__he reached the interior stairs, turned, and mounted them, pulling her along…He was taking her to his own rooms…_

Up the stairs they flew, hand in hand, and once at the top Nathan made straight for his own door.

_He reached around her to shut and lock the door and immediately returned his attention to her, taking both her hands in his and leading her to the cot he hadn't been sleeping in. _

He only turned to look at her when they were both standing at the edge of his bed. He kissed her, slowly and tenderly, told her he loved her, and placed a hand on her shoulder to turn her, so he could begin undoing the fastenings of her dress with trembling fingers, bestowing more kisses on her head and neck and shoulders all the while. When he reached her corset, she felt his hands pause. He smiled against her shoulder, and said, "Now I know why women wear so many layers."

She half-turned her head. "Why's that, love?"

"It gives a man a chance to change his mind."

She reached up to stroke his hair. "Are you changing your mind?"

After a moment he replied by resuming his task.

_…leaned over her and kissed her, curled his fingers in her hair, claimed her, pulled her tight against him so she could feel his heart crash against her own…_

He was gentle, and eager to learn how to please her, and he kissed away the tears when she could no longer hold them back. Which only made her cry all the harder.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Please review!

MAJOR thanks also to Saime Joxxers and Pamena, without whom this chapter would never have seen the light of day :)


	16. Rescue

**Author's Note:** Well. Hello.

Welcome back! Thanks for not forgetting about this story...I apologize _profoundly_ for the long, long, interminable time it's taken to update this. My life has been ridiculously full for the last year - in a good way, but I have practically no time to write anymore. The only reason this story will continue at anything like a reasonable pace is my good friend the spectacularly talented Saime Joxxers. She volunteered to pretty much take over the rest of the fic, so the very vast majority of it will be hers from now on, though it will still be posted under my name and I will be a sort of co-author. So please remember her in your reviews.

This is a kind of transitional chapter. Enjoy...

* * *

**16**

**Rescue.**

**January, 1863.**

Toby had heard plenty of death cries on the battlefield, but the scream of a dying horse was the worst. He never got used to it. No matter how many times that sound pierced his brain, it never failed to turn his bones to ice.

It was even worse when it came from his own horse.

He heard it a split second after feeling the animal sink beneath him. This time, coupled with the horror of the scream was the knowledge that without a mount, he was utterly helpless. As he plummeted to the ground he heard the captain's voice, strong and clear in its commands, but Toby could only see shadowy glimpses of the man when the wind stirred up by artillery fire parted the mist and smoke.

_If the colors touch the ground, he'll kill me._

Toby was wrenched sideways as his wounded animal lurched in agony, and he dropped the reins and clung to the regimental banner with both hands, throwing his arms up over his head. He hit the ground – the breath was forced from his lungs – pain shot through his leg and he knew the horse had pinned him in its fall. If the animal died now, Toby would never be able to pull his leg out and he'd be trapped there, at the mercy of the tide of battle.

Well, he could only hope that his comrades would hear his cries for help over the cannons' roar and come to his aid. In the meantime, his duty was to protect the colors. He twisted and thrust the flagstaff into the ground, but kept his hands on it to make sure it remained secure. Then, as though in one last service to its partner in battle, the horse thrashed and screamed again, allowing Toby just enough room to free his leg and roll away.

Toby scrambled to his knees and looked at the beast who'd been his companion, who'd saved his life more times than Toby could number. They'd been through many battles together, and Toby had come to think of the animal as a part of himself. Now, the horse lay twitching and panting in its death throes, and Toby knew there was only one thing he could do.

He got to his feet and drew his pistol, and with a steady hand aimed it at the animal's head.

He swallowed hard.

"Thanks, mate," he said, and fired straight into the horse's brain.

He holstered his weapon. No time to mourn. One did what had to be done. His dear old mum had taught him that, hadn't she?

Regaining his sense of direction proved even more difficult than staying on his feet, even with his leg aching from the horse's weight. Wrapping his hands around the flagstaff and yanking it firmly from the ground, Toby looked around for his unit. One or two familiar faces gaped up at him from the mud, vacant-eyed and bloodied – but as far as living men, fighting men, all he saw were vague moving shapes in the distance, shouting and yelling, falling, dying amidst smoke and gunfire. Tightening his grip on the flag, tucking the pole against his shoulder to steady it, he plunged toward the fray, giving only cursory glances to the ground to keep from skewering himself on a fallen bayonet or putting his foot through another man's skull.

The center of the battle was thick with smoke, reducing the sun to little more than a yellow-white smudge; but a line of blue jackets resolved out of the fog of war before melting back into obscurity. Toby dogged the vision as the formation seemed to swirl in and out of the fog, a scabby patch of men perhaps half the number he'd expected. He pushed in amongst them and had to file between them before he could make out the ranks and insignias on their caps, bumping shoulders and squeezing between rifle-bearing infantry in a desperate attempt to catch sight of red piping. Most hardly gave him a second glance, preoccupied with firing into the blank greyness and - judging by the sound of the screams – somehow managing to hit their targets. They were infantry, not artillery; but they were Union men and firing at the enemy. And so, when they charged into the fog, Toby drew his pistol and bounded after them.

He charged into across the pockmarked ground, carried by the power of deafening battle cries. The minie balls seemed thick as flies, set on tearing the flag – and him – to shreds, sometimes brushing by so close he could feel them nipping at the sleeves of his uniform. He fired his pistol into the fog, opposite hand still white-knuckled around the flag pole, and drew up beside a Corporal Toby recognized from the First. The man glanced sideways at him, between putting a bullet between a pair of rebel eyes and jamming the ramrod down the barrel of his rifle, and gave Toby a small nod; he died a heartbeat later with blood spurting from a gaping hole in his throat.

The greybacks materialized in a heartbeat. They burst forth from the tangle of woods and into clear view, uttering that strange, savage war-cry of the rebels. The handful of men still surrounding Toby turned their weapons from the fog and opened fire on the visible enemy, some fixing bayonets or sliding knives from sheaths as they ran.

He drew his artillery sword and angled the flag forward, barreling into a man old enough to be his grandfather. The man's bayonet punched a hole through a fold of material in his jacket, inches from his ribs, and Toby felt the brief rush of chill air on bare skin. The flag drooped into the man's face, blinding him momentarily, and Toby drove his sword into the man's chest.

A shout from behind him, the sharp c_rack_ of a rifle-butt at the base of his skull, and the accompanying swirl of darkness kept him from feeling his blade hit bone.

xxxx

"Easy, son. Easy does it."

Trying to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head, which bobbed on his unstable neck like a paper boat in a stream, Toby lifted his leg and took a step. The world pitched forward, blurred and foggy, and he felt strong hands grab the back of his jacket. He could see green and brown and red churning beneath his feet, so bright and vivid it shot stabbing pain through his skull and turned his stomach. He tried to turn his head to look behind him, at the hands that kept him from falling on his face, at the source of the deep, soothing voice he couldn't quite understand, but it just made the ground spin all the faster.

His knees buckled and his torso hung by his jacket, limply suspended, until the hands hauled him to his feet and set him against a half-collapsed wall.

"Can you hear me, Private?" the voice asked, as the hand shook his shoulder gently. He felt a hand on his forehead, tilting his face upward, and caught the vague blur of a bearded face staring into his. "Can you understand me?"

Toby opened his mouth to answer and found his throat dry, tongue tasting of blood that trickled down his face. He tried to swallow. Nothing went down but dust.

The scratchy sound of a canteen opening made Toby's head pound with renewed vengeance. Water poured into his mouth and he coughed at the sudden coolness on his raw throat, sputtering a moment and sucking down every drop he could before his lungs burned from lack of air.

He lowered the canteen, and there was silence.

He hadn't noticed it before now. The throbbing in his head had sounded like the pounding of cannons, the wind through the chinks in the crumbling wall too like the sound a bullet made when it sailed past his ears, the flies like the perpetual buzz and confusion of a battle. His breath started coming faster, his heart racing, his tense limbs bracing for a fight.

But now that he stopped, recognized flies for flies and wind for wind, his panic eased and everything went quiet. His eyes caught the fuzzy shapes of men mulling over the churned ground, bending over and occasionally hoisting another fuzzy shape over their shoulder. Silent, fuzzy shapes.

It made his stomach churn more than a hundred rebel war shrieks.

A heavy hand on his shoulder pulled his attention back to the Union man, who pushed the water to Toby's lips once more. Toby drank until he choked on the water, still coughing even as the man splashed some of the blessedly cool liquid around his neck to clear his mind.

"Can you understand me, son?" the man asked again.

"Yessir," he answered, though his tongue still felt thick.

Now that he was seated, with his head resting against rough, lumpy stone, Toby tried to focus on the man crouching in front of him. He was wearing blue, although a good portion of the cloth was stained, and spoke without the thick drawl he'd begun to associate with the enemy. A Union man, then. A lieutenant, according to the insignia on his shoulders. "You have a name, I suppose," the officer said.

Toby gave a nod that nearly crashed his chin into his collar bone. "Private Tobias Ragg – " he had to stop to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, to clear his lips of dripping blood " – sir." He took another sip of water and drew a shaky breath. He lifted his fingers to his face and focused his bleary eyes on the red. "Am I shot?"

"You've got a lump the size of my fist on the back of your head, and it looks like your nose became intimately acquainted with a rock – but other'n that, not a scratch. You're damned lucky for a man under a flag."

_-the scream ripping from the color bearer's throat before it had even formed, leaving his mouth in a spray of red, with the rest of his face flying off behind it…the regimental flag falling to the ground, even as Toby holds the Stars and Stripes high and tries to ignore the bits of flesh splattering against his pants-_

_The colors!_

Eyes widening, Toby clambered to his feet, hands clawing at the wall behind him in an attempt to keep upright. "They didn't take it, did they? The enemy – they didn't capture…" He spun to face the bearded Union man. The edges of his vision grew momentarily dark, and he sank back down to his seat by the wall. "…Did they?"

The soldier shook his head, dark eyes glittering beneath his blue cap. Whether impressed or amused by Toby's concern, Toby couldn't tell. "I doubt it," he said. "We pushed 'em back pretty far. It cost us, of course, but we ran 'em off in the end."

Toby took a look around. For the first time, his vision was clearing beyond the point of dizzying shapes and colors, and in the narrow field of sight he could see hundreds more men leaning on their rifles and comrades, or propped up against walls, just like him. Except, unlike him, most of them were paler than death, buzzing with flies, limping and missing limbs. Sobbing.

The Union man followed Toby's gaze. "I'll be straight with you, Private," he said. "I lost a lot of men. For once, I've got more horses than I know what to do with and no one to ride them. I assume you ride."

"Yessir, for the best part of three or four months."

The Union man shifted his balance, placing a hand on the wall beside Toby's shoulder to keep himself upright on his haunches. He peered over Toby and nodded thoughtfully as he spoke.

"You're a bit young, but you're light. And just about the only man left 'round here who met with the butt of a rifle instead of the sharp end." He gestured to Toby's face, and then patted his jacket for a handkerchief. He passed it to Toby, who pressed it beneath his bloody nose. "What do you say about joining the cavalry? I've got a horse for you in my troop."

"My regiment…"

"Long gone, son. Five or six hours, at least."

Toby nodded, slowly. It'd be nearly impossible to reach them, even if he had caught the marching orders.

"Now, I'm not going to force you. We're looking for volunteers, not slaves-" the man smiled, slightly, "- but I think you'll regret passing it up. If you ride as well as you carry that flag, you'd make a fine scout. And we could use a pair of young eyes."

"Then I don't know how much I can help you there, sir," Toby said. A brief jolt of panic crept through into his voice as he ran his fingers over his eyes, which were narrowed into small slits and caked with mud. For all his vision was clearing, it still felt like he was peering through a tunnel.

"That's because you're swollen up like a politician's ego, son. We set that nose, get you a cold cloth to lay over it for a few hours, and you'll be ready to ride with us in the morning. What do you say?"

Glancing over the man's face, Toby nodded. He didn't look like a man likely to use his men as cannon fodder. "Yes, sir. Thank you. I accept." He moved to stand again, saluting, but the Union man waved him back down.

"You might not want to stand just now, Private," he said, and took the bloodied handkerchief from Toby. He folded it, and carefully tented it over Toby's crooked nose. He expelled a heavy breath and rocked to his knees. "On the count of five – in fact, you count for me."

Toby cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice from shaking. Pain lanced like a bayonet between his eyes, and the Union man was hardly touching it. "One… two… three…"

He hardly heard his "four" over the _crunch_… or even heard himself scream over the grating sound of bone and cartilage sliding back into place. He placed his finger between his teeth to keep from cracking them, nearly biting through the battle toughened skin.

"Bloody 'ell," he said after what seemed like an eternity. He took the handkerchief from the Union man and held it under his nose to stop the renewed bleeding, tears falling freely down his face.

His new comrade smiled, lifted him to his feet, and threw Toby's arm over his shoulders. "Welcome to the cavalry."

xxxx

Pushing ever northward through Virginia, the First Texas Infantry tramped on blistered feet across miles of hard winter ground. Sergeant Todd's unit had been ordered to separate from the regiment, dispatched to a town rumored to harbor Union sympathizers. The place had recently been evacuated in anticipation of the Confederate advance, and Todd's job was to search for any intelligence the enemy may have left behind – as well as to seize any supplies the regiment might need, such as ever-coveted shoes and warmer clothing.

They marched all night and searched the abandoned buildings – some of whose front doors gaped pathetically open – leaving no scrap of paper undisturbed. And found absolutely nothing. What had begun as an orderly mission quickly turned to a debacle as, spurred on by frustration, men began looting everything they could carry and burning whatever they couldn't lift. Soon flames were leaping from the windows of houses. Only Johnson, MacMullen and a few others showed restraint, sticking close to the sergeant as he slowly stalked along the main street, dispassionately surveying the destruction. Once the men had exhausted themselves they'd fall into line, and then, Todd thought, they could move the hell on.

And then suddenly, threading through the riotous cries of male voices, came a high-pitched shriek.

Todd stopped in his tracks, brow furrowed.

"What is it, sir?" asked Johnson.

Todd shook his head and waved his hand for silence. He cocked his head slightly, listening, wondering if he'd imagined it or if it had merely been a sound of destruction the groan of a house or an old elm being torn from its roots. But no – there it was again, and it seemed that Johnson and MacMullen heard it too, this time, because they straightened and began looking about for the source of the sound.

"Intelligence said this place was unoccupied," Todd addressed MacMullen.

The private answered, with a confused expression, "Yes, sir."

Another high-pitched scream tore through the cold air, more desperate this time.

"Wait here," said Todd, and headed off, allowing the volume of the voice to guide him. He soon found himself approaching a house, whose door was closed and windows shuttered tight, where the cries were loudest. He bounded up the steps to the door – it was locked, and he pounded on it.

"_No!" _came the voice from within, full of terror and agony, and Todd, with one swift movement, kicked open the door.

The sight that met his eyes nearly stopped his heart.

A woman was lying across an ottoman, her head thrown back, mouth open in a drawn-out screech, hands balled into fists above her head – her wrists held by one of Todd's own men, who was pinning her down with the whole length of his body.

Hell itself rose up in Todd.

In two steps he was across the room – he grasped the soldier by the hair, wrenched him to his feet, and threw him against the opposite wall. In a flash, Todd's bayonet was at the man's throat. It was everything the former barber could do not to push the blade through the bastard's skin.

"Carver," he snarled.

The soldier's eyes were wide with terror, his mouth gaping, hands raised and quaking. "She – her husband's off in the war," he stammered. "She's lonesome and she asked me to – "

Todd knew this was a lie, and he gnashed his teeth, incapable of even speaking in his wrath.

"I swear!" Carver squeaked – then yelped like a kicked hound as Todd tightened his fist. Strands of hair snapped like banjo strings, yanked from the man's scalp. "Shut…your…mouth," he growled. "I ought to kill you right now."

Carver was shuddering to pieces and sucking air through his teeth. Todd was sickened by the man's cowardice. "You're a bloody disgrace," he said. "You don't deserve to wear this uniform."

Carver opened his mouth but all that came out was a scream of pain as Todd pulled him – still by the hair – to the open door._"Johnson!" _he called, and in a flash the young soldier stood before him.

"Sir!" said Johnson, with a crisp salute.

"Take this piece of shit back to the men and tell 'em to put him in chains."

Johnson raised an eyebrow. Her eyes flicked to Carver, then to the woman; and Todd could see that she knew exactly what had gone on. With a small smile – of satisfaction, Todd imagined, at being the one to lead Carver to his punishment – she replied "Yes, Sergeant."

"Then get MacMullen and come back here."

"Yes sir."

Johnson moved off with Carver, and Todd returned to the woman. He found her on the floor, a shaking hand to her mouth, drawing great sobbing breaths. Unkempt strands of black hair clung to the tears on her face. One shoulder of her dress was torn.

He took a step toward her and she flinched, gathering the tattered material of her dress over her bared skin and scrambling closer to the wall. She stared at him with wide, dark eyes.

She was not Lucy. But had Todd entered a moment later, she could have been.

"Did he do what he come here for?" he asked bluntly.

Still half-curled against the wall, the woman shook her head rapidly and stared at Sweeney, eyes glazed with terror. No doubt she had heard men of the CSA raped their victims and ate their bodies – and between Carver and Todd himself, they could have almost proved her fears true. Perhaps, judging by the way she was looking at him, she thought he'd chased Carver off so he could have her all to himself.

He sheathed his bayonet and crossed the room to pluck a threadbare blanket from the back of a chair in the corner. He tossed it at her feet.

At first, she was reluctant to touch it. She stared at it, lips parted and brows creased in an expression just short of comprehension. She placed her fingers on a corner of the blanket, and then drew back as if bitten.

"What're you still doin' here?" Todd asked. "Why haven't you left with the others?"

Her eyes darted to the door, where the rattle of chains and the raucous shouting of soldiers drifted into the small house, and then back to Todd. She swallowed hard, wiped the tears from her eyes, and pulled the blanket over her lap. She wrapped it around her shoulders and held it clasped over her chest. "... I live here," she said, in a tone that suggested this should be obvious.

"There's a very good chance _here_ will not exist come next month," he countered. "You're right in the bloody line of battle, woman." The expression on her face was not surprise – she knew this full well. "Why are you still here?" Todd repeated, more slowly this time.

The woman trembled slightly and then, gathering strength, got to her feet. Using the wall to steady herself – it looked as if her legs were not responding well to the shock – she walked to a parlor piano situated against a wall, and took up a framed tintype from its top. She held it out to Todd, her hand outstretched and still shaking, until he reached out and took it from her.

The image, scratched and slightly scuffed, was of a man impeccably turned out in the uniform of the Union army, with the appearance but not the bearing of a soldier. With a round face and a slightly crooked grin, the man stood awkwardly with his rifle, holding it over his shoulder in a way that suggested he'd be more comfortable with a pitchfork or a hoe in his hand.

"If I leave, my husband won't be able to find me when he comes back from the war."

The words "You're a fool" left Todd's mouth almost before he'd formed them in his mind.

Her jaw tightened into a scowl, cheeks darkening into an angry red. She pulled the picture from his hand and placed it back on the piano with a gentleness that contrasted her obvious anger. Her voice shook when she spoke again, turning to Todd with a look of grit determination - and the resignation borne of a hundred repetitions. "Harold deserves to come home to a wife and family," she said. "I promised I'd be here when he comes back."

He'd heard that promise before. Hundreds, thousands of men going off to war, to prison, to sea had heard it. And when they returned, there was always some story to greet them in their wives' stead. Your wife took sick last month, sir. Your wife tried to come looking for you; you're saying she never made it? Your wife… well, she got remarried. Your wife-

_" – poisoned_ _'erself, from the apothecary 'round the corner – "_

Todd blinked, returning his attention to the woman. She was talking again, looking not at him but at the tintype.

"Maybe it would be different if we hadn't lost our Sarah -" She paused, looking away when her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears. She sniffed and dabbed the corners of her eyes with the blanket, finally stepping away from the dresser. "I won't have him coming home to an empty house."

She was trying to spare her husband the agony of pushing open an unlocked door, of seeing only cobwebs and shadows and an empty cradle in the corner of the room.

"Noble sentiment," Todd sneered. "Not terribly realistic."

She wiped her palms on her dress, glancing up to Todd's face for one brief moment. "Truth be told – I didn't think your men would make it this far. I prayed they wouldn't."

Todd's jaw tightened. The air inside seemed suddenly too thin, filled with raucous laughter that grated on his ears and made him itch for a rifle – though he knew it to be coming from his men outside as they sifted through the few remaining valuables scavenged from the town. "A lot o' good your praying did you."

The woman's expression was confident and her voice steady as she said, "One of my prayers was answered when you came through that door a minute ago."

Todd swallowed, his fingers caressing the bayonet sheath at his hip. He was remembering a young man, a lifetime ago, whose simple faith had given him that same naive certainty he saw in the eyes of the woman now standing before him. "And what of the prayers of the hundreds of boys torn to pieces for their country, or the soldier standing his ground when every man around him turns tail like a coward and leaves him to die, or every woman like yourself who finds herself thrown over the back of a horse and dragged off for no other crime than tending her garden so her family can have a mouthful of stew over the winter? Or a man sent off to rot in prison when he ain't done nothing wrong? Hey? Who hears them?"

She was twirling a strand of the blanket as if she might snap it off. He could see that he'd touched an open wound – but then, so had she.

He was about to turn – to leave her sitting with her blanket and tintype to see her through the rest of the war – when she spoke.

"Do you think you're the only one who's tried to convince me to leave? I've faced ridicule, threats, pleas – from people who claimed to be my friends. And I'm going to tell you the same thing I told them." Her cheeks flushed with an anger that bled through into her voice. She rubbed the blanket between her fingers, as if checking for holes. "I don't have a choice."

"I'm giving you a choice."

"It's either this or I risk never seeing him again." She looked at him with defiance in her eyes. "I've waited for him for months and I am not leaving now!"

Her ignorant dismissal felt like a slap in the face. Heat crawled up his neck and curled into the muscles of his jaw, bringing his teeth together hard enough to make his jaw ache. His hands closed over the cloth of his jacket, tightening into white-knuckled fists, clutching at the material to keep from closing over his bayonet.

"When we move out," he said quietly, "you'll be on your own again, at the mercy of whoever else comes through here next. And next time maybe none of 'em will be interested in saving you."

Doubt appeared in her eyes then, and it gave Todd the opening he'd been waiting for.

"You think you'd want to see your husband again, after only God knows how many men have had their filthy way with you? Or would you rather he come home to your burned corpse? And what about what's happened to _him_ by then? Might not even be the same man."

When he stepped forward, it was not to scare her – it was to terrify her. It was to make her heart clench near to giving out, to widen her pretty eyes and drain the color from her face and make sure she couldn't afford to look away for even a moment. Make sure she would never, ever forget what he was about to say.

"You think you could let him touch you without thinking of those men? That you could even stand the damned sight of him without feeling a shame strike through you like fire, as if it would eat you from the inside out…"

She was shaking her head. He wanted to crush her beneath his words – because she could never understand –

"He'd rather _die_ than see that happen to you. He'd rather never see you again than hear you'd come to harm. Your noble little stand isn't worth your life or your honor."

He drifted in an ocean of red, pounded by the spray of furious waves and all but blind to the woman before him, who looked nearly as grey as his own uniform. As his vision cleared, he could see the shallow rise and fall of her chest beneath the blanket, catch the smell of wood smoke on her clothes.

He was closer to her than he remembered. And his voice was louder, meant for stretching across the room – harsh enough to make her wince.

"You mean _everything_ to him, you understand? _You're his very life!_"

The woman's wide, dark eyes began to fill with tears and her hands began trembling again, a trembling born of terror and realization, the triumph of a horror she had denied for endless seasons. Her shoulders slumped, and she leaned heavily against the back of a nearby chair.

Todd narrowed his eyes and stepped back. He regarded her for a long moment, and then turned on his heels and began to pace from wall to wall, eating up the floor in long strides. Where the hell were Johnson and MacMullen?

A fire burned in him – a fire that caused chills to run down his skin and a cold sweat to break out over his forehead. When he had heard about Lucy – about what Turpin had done to her – Todd had thought the same fire might devour him alive. And it nearly had. The knowledge of the agony she had felt, the shame, the pain, had burned beneath the overwhelming need to silence the laughter.

And how he had gone nearly out of his mind when he'd read about _her_ in the paper, how he'd wanted nothing more in that moment than the necks of the guards who did it, so he could shove a bayonet through their throats until he hit bone or thin air on the other side. Nothing had transpired, and yet her terrified expression was etched forever in his mind like a brand, conjured into his thoughts courtesy of a thousand nightmares.

He gnashed his teeth, turning to stare out the small window out at the soldiers mulling around in the cold outside. They looked jovial but slightly deflated, as though all their frustration had finally been slaked in sacking the town.

As he turned from the window, his slight movement caused paper to crackle inside his jacket – the sound was like a thunderbolt to his ears – and he was keenly aware of the feeling of the drawing tucked into his uniform's inner folds as though it was nettling, burning right through his shirt and against his skin like the poison ivy scattered all around this godforsaken country. He would have been better to have cast it away days ago to be carried away in the wind or trampled by his men – even now the bloody thing nagged at his mind like the woman herself until it was all he could do not to tear off his jacket and send it through the window – but something stayed him.

He pulled his hand away from his heart and let it fall to his side. Till then he hadn't even realized his hand had been pressed there.

"Are- are you married, mister?"

The question shattered the silence between them. Todd wheeled around to face the woman reluctantly, like a horse dragged out of full gallop by a heavy-handed rider. Indeed, lost in his thoughts, he'd nearly forgotten she was still there. "What?"

Dark hair falling about her face like a curtain, she twisted the blanket between her hands, alternating glances between him and the floor. She never once met his eyes. "Do you have a wife?"

He scowled, turned back to the window, and snapped "No."

When she looked up next, there was confusion in her dark eyes, an echo of the pain he had unearthed by his own words. The confession he had unwittingly given. "Surely, you must. The way you talked about what I mean to my husband…you talk like a man who knows what he's saying."

_A flash of yellow hair, eyes like cornflower petals…_

He cleared his throat. "I did have a wife, once."

"What happened?"

Through the window, Todd saw his men, some of whom were beginning to hew down a pair of stout oaks lining the road while the others searched their belongings for a warmer set of clothes or a good cooking pot.

He wished he was anywhere but here – standing under the scrutiny of this woman whose name he didn't even know. If he had been smart, he would have been outside with his men, setting up camp or breaking up a fight. He would have turned a deaf ear to the curious crashes from the second house on the row – and ignored this woman's screams the way he ignored the screams of battle.

But if he'd done that, then what would that cheerful, ignorant farmer have to come home to?

_Why do I care?_

After all, it had been her choice to stay. It had been her choice to wait directly in the path of an approaching army, to wait out each day and each month even as they relentlessly advanced…

He stared at her for a long moment. She kept her eyes cast down for the duration, though every so often she would peer up from beneath her lashes and search his face for an answer yet undecided. She looked far younger than he had originally thought. Now that the lines of terror had smoothed, the color returned to her cheeks, she looked to be hardly out of girlhood – perhaps a handful of years older than Johanna. The similarities ended there, with one blonde and fair (_the way I dreamed you were_) and the other dark like a Spaniard, but the realization weighed in his stomach like hardtack.

"Bloody woman," he muttered. "What almost happened to you…it happened to her."

The woman's eyes widened, her jaw dropping slightly open.

"She went mad from it. Now she's dead."

She shook her head slowly, dropped her gaze to the floor. "I'm so sorry…"

Todd jerked his chin in the direction of the tintype atop the piano. "Don't let him come home to that."

The woman continued shaking her head with a dreamlike quality, her eyes unfocused, looking past Todd, as if seeing her folly for the first time. "No…no, I mustn't…He told me to take care of myself…But…how will he find me?"

Todd shifted his weight to move to the door, and again the folded drawing of Nellie Lovett rustled in his jacket. "He'll find you," he said.

At the door, he called for Johnson, but saw that she was already approaching, MacMullen by her side. He beckoned them, and they entered the house.

"Where the bloody hell you been?"

Johnson saluted. "Sir! We had to establish a temporary jail to house the prisoner."

"Where?"

"In a former residence about fifty yards down the main street. Becker and Thomas are on guard."

Todd nodded. "Take this woman to Carlisle and tell him to get three others for special duty."

"Yes sir," Johnson and MacMullen replied in unison.

Todd turned back to the woman. "You got relatives nearby?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head.

"What about further north?"

The woman stammered her reply as though she couldn't comprehend why he was asking. "I – I have an aunt in Boston."

"I can spare four men to escort you as far as the railway station," he said. His voice sounded hollow against the thin pane of the window. "They won't harm you. You're on your own after that."

He popped the clasp of his holster and pulled out his revolver. The woman's eyes widened and she took a step back.

He flipped the gun around to hold it by the barrel. "You got one of these?"

She put her hand to the side of her face and let out a breath. She shook her head.

He removed a cap box from his belt and pressed it into the woman's hand, along with the gun. "Keep this with you. Never know what you might run into on the way."

He stood back to allow her to go to the door, but she didn't move. Todd nodded slightly to MacMullen, who stepped forward, removed his cap, and said gently, "Ma'am, if you'd please come with us?"

But, as if in a daze, she went instead to the piano and took up the tintype. Clutching the frame till her knuckles were white, she cast her gaze around the room as if seeing its every memory – and Todd suspected that she knew those memories would soon become ghosts.

Taking a deep breath, the woman turned and strode resolutely to the door – but as she passed Todd, she looked up at him with an expression of strangely mingled gratitude, incomprehension, and sympathy. She seized his hand so suddenly that he was taken off-guard and started slightly at the contact, and she brought the hand to her lips, pressed it with a kiss, and held the hand against her cheek as she whispered, "God bless you, sir."

A chill wind came through the door, pushed Todd's hair from his face and sent the legs of his trousers flapping like the company colors. Sliced right through the worn-out wool of his coat and stung his skin like darts.

It was a little late for blessings now. They were fast gaining ground towards enemy country in the dead of winter. They'd arrived on the tail end of a storm, but the wind was at their heels and pushing another fast upon them. Even now men were stuffing their boots with paper raided from the nearby houses, tearing sheets from just about every book but the Bible to mend holes in their worn down soles. His men – already ankle deep in snow, fighting for their homes and their country and a way of life that couldn't possibly last –deserved all the grace they could scavenge up.

As for Sweeney Todd – he deserved a lot of things. But blessing had no place among them.

So he said nothing.

The woman turned to Johnson and MacMullen with a stiff, proud nod, and walked out the door and down the steps with the two soldiers at her heels.

She never once looked back.

Even if there had been a reason for him to remain in the house, Todd couldn't have borne it a moment longer. He walked briskly outside, grateful for the cold, bracing air on his skin –

A sharp crack, the sound of splitting wood, echoed down the street as a soldier pried a plank from a nearby porch and tossed it into a steadily growing bonfire that had sprung up in the middle of the road. The noise made him wince, twisting his gut into knots like tangled rope. Jaw set, Todd stalked over and gripped the man by an elbow, snarling "What do you think you're doing?"

The soldier, brow furrowed in confusion, looked to the bonfire, then back to Todd, and said "Breakin' up this house. The men have to stay warm somehow, sir."

Looking around, Todd saw similar sights throughout the town: no longer the frenzy of looting but something worse, a methodical tearing-down of private residences for the provision of fuel.

"Stop this," said Todd – to no one in particular at first. Then he was striding up and down the streets, repeating _"Stop this!"_ to every man he saw and laying hold of every corporal he could find, issuing orders to cease the destruction.

"But Sergeant!" MacMullen – of all people – protested. "We need heat and cooking fires!" Beneath his week's growth of beard, his face twitched in a distasteful scowl. "'Sides, you think Billy Yank would spare us the same?"

"I think," Todd snarled, "that these people deserve something to _bloody come home to!_"

He was not in the habit of raising his voice to his men, except to be heard over the roar of combat. His orders were always issued in steady, measured tones; sometimes his men had to strain to hear him. He was respected because it seemed nothing could rattle him. And here he was, practically screaming at one of his best soldiers in the unit. The strength of his passion surprised him, and he realized that he meant every word he spoke.

"We move out in the morning," Todd announced to the crowd that had gathered around, ignoring the shock on MacMullen's face, "and take what we need: boots, coats, ammunition, rations. No more. We leave the town standing. Do I make myself clear?"

MacMullen looked away. He exhaled slowly, shoulders tense, and nodded.

Todd caught the eye of a corporal. "You!" he barked, and the man snapped to attention. "Organize a detail to put out the fires in the houses. This town is to be left standing."

The corporal blinked. "With respect, Sergeant, we have no – "

"Get moving or I'll have you brought up on charges for disobeying a direct order," said Todd calmly, turning away as the soldier saluted and moved off.

"Now," he went on, addressing the group as a whole, "someone bring me Carver."

He saw two men move off toward a nearby house and knock on the door. It was answered by a soldier bearing a rifle on his shoulder; the man smartly saluted, the two entered, and a moment later emerged with Carver, his wrists and ankles shackled, his face wearing a look of indignation as though he'd been the one wronged. Todd felt a momentary swell of pride that his men had functioned so efficiently.

The men brought Carver forward and stopped with a salute in front of Todd, who noticed that suddenly the entire unit, aside from the fire detail, seemed to have materialized out of nowhere to watch this spectacle.

"This man," Todd said evenly, making sure all the men could hear him, "was caught trying to violate a woman. That won't be tolerated in my unit."

Todd turned to look at Carver, stepped up to within inches of his face, and murmured, "Now all I have to do is decide what to do with you."

Carver's expression was defiant, but fear was in his eyes. "So get on with it."

Todd's lips curled in a smile colder than the frosty ground at his feet. "Well, I'd like to cut you up in little pieces. But I don't fancy being hauled in front of a court-martial." Then, raising his voice to address the entire group, he called out, "Strip him."

Immediately the men moved to carry out the order, while Todd turned and moved off towards a skeletal tree that stood by the roadside. He selected a sturdy, pliable switch, snapped it off, and struck it against the trunk a few times. Satisfied with its performance, he returned to find Carver standing naked and beginning to shiver. Wordlessly, Todd jerked his head in the direction of a horse-hitching post in front of a nearby edifice that appeared to have once been the town's post office.

"Johnson."

She stepped forward.

"Fix his chains to the post."

She did so.

"Count for me."

"Wha – "

Her question was cut off by the _whoup!_ of Todd's switch, followed by a crack as of a whip when the branch hit skin. The third strike of Todd's switch laid a red line across Carver's back. The eighth took the man to his knees.

_Fifteen. Sixteen._

Todd's thoughts kept time with Johnson's steady counting, washing in and out like the undulating waves of the sea.

The memory of the lash on his back struggled against the entirely different – entirely present – sensation of the switch in his hand, the vibrations shooting up his arm with every stroke, the numbing in his fingers from the cold and ache in his shoulder from the exertion.

_Twenty one. Twenty two. _

Johnson's counting juxtaposed with the echo of his own screams as he cursed the hot Australian sun as it beat against his skin, hotter and more painful than the lashes, knowing it would be over in –

_Twenty six. Twenty seven. _

Red hair –_yellow, like wheat-, _brown eyes _–no, no, blue as the sky, like cornflowers, damn you-_ and the way she was taken from him, taken along with years of his life, the way he could never get her back because no doubt she was happy _-in heaven with the angels-_ hanging off the arm of some simpering fool in a grey uniform -

_Forty. _

The final blow sounded like a gunshot.

When Todd let his arm fall to his side, breathing steadily despite the furious pounding of his heart in his temples, he could see the switch dangling at an odd angle, snapped in half and held together only by threads and splinters.

He dropped it into the snow.

"Take him back to the prison and get him cleaned up." His words were sharp and crisp, directed at nobody but the man collapsed against the hitching post. He didn't care who did it, and for a moment the men whispered in confusion until Johnson stepped forward and began pointing fingers.

Three men stepped up to the post, their footsteps churning mud into the pinkish snow. One man unhitched Carver's chains while the other two gingerly slid their hands under his arms and helped him get to his feet. Most of Todd's lashes had not drawn blood – it was a sturdy switch, but it was no whip. Still, his back was an angry red, welted and striped like a side of raw beef, and there was enough blood dripping down his legs to leave a trail back to the guardhouse.

Grimacing against the wind, Todd turned to regard the rows of fires and tents springing up on the roadside as an overflow for those unable to fit in the houses, most on the leeward side of buildings and sheds. He picked up a handful of snow to soothe his stinging palm.

The hand was trembling.

He turned to Johnson, who was watching Carver's slow procession with steel in her eyes.

"Inform the rest of the men. We leave tomorrow for Middleburg."

xxxx

_"The Roberts are movin' to Lancashire. You remember them, don't you? Nice couple."_

_Nellie had long since given up expecting an answer from Todd. Unless she was talking about the judge or Lucy - and even then, there was no guarantee she'd get more than a passing grunt in response - she might as well have been talking to a wall. It was something she had come to accept - and expect - over the time they'd been living together. She finished drying the glasses and tossed the cloth back onto the counter._

_"Tall fellow," she continued. "Blond. Wife skinny as a skeleton. Ringin' any bells? Anyway, she's been sick the last months, I heard tell- and they're headed off to bloody God's country in Lancashire to get rid of whatever's crawled into her lungs." Clutching the glasses between her fingers, she wandered into the parlor and set them down on the shelf of the liquor cabinet. She scanned the contents of the cabinet, running the fingers of one hand along the bottles and tapping her chin with the other. After flipping one of the bottles around to read the label, Nellie pulled two bottles off the shelves and held them out in front of her to study them further. "Scotch or brandy?" she asked._

_"Brandy."_

_"Good, 'cos Toby nearly finished all the scotch. Blighter." She set the nearly empty bottle back and picked up the glasses between her fingers once more. "Anyway, as I was sayin', they're off next week. Although I dunno what good Lancashire's gonna do."_

_Todd sat on the couch in front of the dwindling fire, half sunk into shadow and the deteriorating couch cushions. She handed the glasses to him, pulled the stopper, and filled each to the top. Then she took hers and set the bottle, corked again, by his feet. "I s'pose any where's better than the little shack they're in now, but they'd be better off of Devon or Plymouth or some such place if you ask me."_

_"They didn't ask you," he answered without turning to her. He leaned forward, hands tented over his glass, and rested his elbows on his knees. The firelight danced through the brandy, casting amber onto his white shirt._

_"Yeah, well, they should've." She eased herself down onto the couch beside him, groaning at the ever present ache in her knees - which flared up at the sudden removal of weight as loudly as it would the addition – and scooted a few inches toward the other end of the short couch so she could set her glass on the armrest. _

_Her shuffling bounced Todd mercilessly, nearly spilling his drink. He glanced away from the fire long enough to glare at her. She grinned back._

_He still wasn't entirely comfortable sitting near her. That much was evident in his body language, the way he angled himself toward the fire instead of toward her, the way he tried too hard to stare into his drink instead of looking at her every time she spoke. It was fine to have nothing between them but skin or a thin sheet, to have his arms around her in the dark of night – but get any closer than a good stride during the day and his hackles went up like a cat with its tail pulled._

_She took a sip and leaned back, throwing her free arm over the back of the couch, fingers hanging inches away from the back of Todd's head. She tapped her fingers against the couch to keep them from diving into his curling, twisting locks._

_Originally, she'd kept her distance, limiting herself to the bench of her harmonium or the ottoman across the room… but she'd inched her way closer with time. She liked to think he'd realized there was something endlessly more companionable about sharing both a drink and a couch… but in reality he'd probably grown too tired of crossing the room every time he wanted to top up his glass. Even if the parlor was the size of a pillbox._

_"Must be nice – gettin' out of here," she said with a sigh. Having nothin' to hold you back."_

_He glances to her out of the side of his vision and smirks. "Am I holding you back, Eleanor?"_

_She smiles. "Maybe." She took a sip of her brandy, giving a little shrug. "But it's not like I'd be going anywhere important or anything." His gaze was back on his drink and on the fire, but she continued. "Just somewhere with space. Somewhere what smells like flowers and grass 'stead of flour and grease." The fire flickered as a downdraft howled through a chink in the chimney. "Somewhere what doesn't have walls as crooked as the bloody ol' judge."_

_Todd stiffened and sat up straight, nearly driving her fingers into the back of his head. His first sip of brandy left his glass half empty._

_She let her forefinger brush against the back of his neck and withdrew her hand, drinking in the silence until he reached down to grab the bottle. She held her glass out for a refill. "What are your plans after all this is done, Mister T?"_

_His face was set in a frown, exaggerating the lines in his face – but the firelight couldn't seem to touch his eyes. They were sunk in his face like craters, empty and glittering, somehow cold as snow and hot as her oven all at once. He filled her glass, and then his, and replaced the bottle. _"_Perhaps it will never be done," he said._

_"Awfully cheery tonight, aren't we?" This time he didn't bother looking at her. She sighed. "Come on, love. Don't be ridiculous. He's got to wander by eventually. Then you just give him a nice shave, we pop him into a crispy pie, and you're free as a jay bird."_

_He grunted in what Nellie assumed was amusement._

"_Free enough, at least. Free to do what you like... be with who you like. Don't tell me you haven't thought about that."_

_"I have." He took a sip of brandy._

_"And?"_

_He leaned back further onto the couch, and this time her fingers did touch, brushing hair like silk, twining through inky locks, caressing the warmth of skin beneath._

_"It holds nothing for me," he said._

_She pouted and angled her body toward him. She crossed her legs, rather un-lady-like, at the knee, flexing her fingers over his scalp. "Nothin', love? Nothin' at all?"_

_He turned his head, eyes dark and heavy lidded, and smirked. Lips parted ever so slightly, eyes roaming up her leg and along the lines of her low-cut dress, he drained his glass. He set it down on the floor and placed his hand on her knee, fingers curling possessively against her striped stocking. "Nothing you'd be interested in, my dear."_

_She had enough sense to tip her own drink back before shuffling closer, to let the empty cup roll from her fingers onto the carpet. They were nearly hip to hip now, and he was untangling her fingers from his hair, sliding his hand further up her knee._

_Another benefit of sharing the couch._

_When he finally disentangled her hand, she snaked it around his shoulders and gripped at his shirt. "Try me, love."_

"_I plan to."_

_It was his turn to lead, to direct their dance, to set the pace and smile at the way his delays drove her mad. She curled her fingers back into his hair and gripped the fabric of his shirt, just as he gripped her – his hands on her leg, on her arms, on the back of her neck, pressing her corset against his chest until she was certain her ribcage would shatter. His lips followed the curve of her neck, driving goose bumps over her skin; his mouth pressed against hers but never remained long enough for her to ever be truly satisfied, as if he was within her reach but still a thousand miles away._

"_What does freedom mean to you, Nellie?" he asked. His voice rumbled straight through her, a clap of thunder against a windowpane._

"_The sea, love." His lips against her neck. "The sand." His hand sliding over the bare skin of her shoulders. "The waves against the rocks."_

"…_your sea…I'll take you there."_

"_Yes, love," she whispered, panting against his mouth, hands wandering endlessly further than the mat of his hair._

_"…and we'll enjoy each other every night to the sound of the waves out our window…"_

_She tightened her grip on him and found his mouth, finally, kissing him until she needed air even more desperately than she needed him._

_She sighed, lips curling into a smile beneath his. "And we can be married…"_

_His muscles tensed, suddenly stiff and unyielding beneath her touch, as if he had been struck by a bolt of lightning._

_She realized she'd gone too far, too soon; and in a desperate attempt to undo the damage she began to speak almost before she registered what had happened. "Aw, it was just a foolish fantasy, love. Don't pay any mind. It's just…after what we talked about last weekend, when we went to the country –"_

_Before she could finish, he was on his feet. Two quick strides carried him across the floor, tearing the hem of his shirt out of Nellie's hand. She hadn't even realized she'd been trying to hold him back._

_"You talked about it," he rasped, hurrying the words._

_Swallowing, furious at herself for misjudging his readiness, Nellie pushed herself to her feet. She exhaled through her nose, searching to regain her senses despite her pounding heart and the fog of his lingering scent on her skin._

_The firelight gleamed around him, flaring bright on the edges of his silhouette, a halo of gold and red._

"_Love…"_

"_You know __I'm not that man anymore." His fists were clenched by his sides, shoulders curved at a dangerous angle, head turned away from her._

_She could feel anger, barely concealed and almost tangible in the red-orange light, coming off him in waves, and still she stepped forward. He gave no acknowledgment of her approach. She placed her hand on his back._

_He rounded on her with the force of a steam train. His teeth were grit together, so tight that spitting the words out threatened to shear them in half. "There will be no boardwalks, no afternoon tea, no seaside weddings…" She could see her reflection –and wild panic – in his eyes. "Benjamin Barker is dead."_

_She managed to keep her voice even, her gaze fixed steadily on his. "We've had this conversation, dear," she said, pleased with the neutral tone in which she managed the words._

_His chest still heaved, and he searched her face, his lips parted. "Why can't you just be content with what you've got?"_

_She blinked. Her brows furrowed, and she tilted her head slightly. "Well that's rich, ain't it, comin' from you." The apology was gone from her voice, burned out by the growing heat rising up her face. "It's real bloody rich, comin' from a man what wouldn't notice a good thing if it bit 'im in the arse… too busy harpin' on what happened bleedin' ages ago."_

_A shadow crossed his face, his eyes dangerously dark. She reined herself in, raised a hand to her forehead to collect herself, then lowered it quickly lest he see that she was trembling. "I know it still hurts," she said, her tone subdued by caution as well as regret. "I know some of it'll never heal right. But if Barker is dead, let 'im die, love. Don't you know you're the one keepin' him alive, pinin' away for his life what's gone? Livin' to right the wrongs done him?"_

_"You said you wanted to right those wrongs too."_

_"I do. But they're the only things you ever see – bloody Turpin and Bamford and Lucy – "_

"_Don't you pull Lucy into this," he hissed._

_"Don't pull 'er into this? Love, I couldn't take your Lucy out of 'this' if I tried." And she has tried – oh how bloody hard she's tried. "She's gone, Mister T, but she and the judge and bleedin' Australia, they're all you ever think about. You'll never look after it all, but there's somethin' else for you here…there has to be. Life is for the alive."_

_She'd said those words so many times already, it even sounded stale to her own ears. Todd stood, motionless and rigid, in front of her, his eyes as dark and sharp as obsidian, staring into her but never really seeing. Lost in the shadows of his past – or staring into the equal darkness of a future that led to nowhere._

_"You and me…we could make a life of our own. Why not, 'ey? Not like what come before, but…somethin' different, somethin' we could make up together. Somethin' we could call ours."_

_He made no answer, and she__sighed, exhaling some of the tension from her shoulders. She was out of options - out of plans to break through his diamond skin and make him realize he was giving life in exchange for the half-forgotten memory of a madwoman. Her only consolation was that he hadn't moved from his spot, either to draw his razor (she knew it never left his side - even now she could see the end of its holster below his untucked shirt) or to leave her alone with a half-full bottle of brandy._

_He turned away from her, looked into the fire. "You don't understand."_

"_Then explain it to me."_

"_You're asking something I can't give you."_

_She sighed, crossed her arms. "Right, because you don't like tea parties and__Lucy will always be your wife."_

_He nearly cut off her last words. "You think I don't wish I were free, Eleanor? You think I left prison when I escaped the colony?"_

_That was a curious thing to say. "What are you talkin' about?"_

"_I promised her I'd never remarry," he said. "I promised her that if anything ever happened…I'd never take another wife."_

_Nellie was stunned at this unexpected turn. "Well," she said quietly, "that was a bit unfair of her, don't you think?"_

"_I said I promised her," he said, but his voice lacked the anger she expected. "I never said she asked me to."_

_He finally turned to her, and she'd only seen such sorrow in his eyes once before, when he'd first come home and she'd led him to believe his wife was dead – but his voice was cold, betraying nothing. "So you're asking me the impossible, Eleanor. __And even if…" There it was. If. The tiny little word that seemed to always butt in between her and her dreams. He turned and made his way to the brandy bottle, refilled his glass.__" He turned and made his way to the brandy bottle, refilled his glass. "Even so…I'm not suited to the kind of life you want. You wouldn't be happy."_

_Nellie's heart leapt at the thought that he even cared whether she was happy or not. She went to him, reached up to place her hand on his shoulder, to lift her fingers to his neck where the first ridges of white scars disappeared beneath his shirt. He flinched, but didn't pull away, and she willed his temper down. She prayed for his fury to melt beneath her touch, for him to feel the warmth of her love even if he never returned it in the way she longed for – even if he never called her his wife._

_It wasn't the title she craved (although Nellie Todd did have a bloody nice ring to it), but the meaning. It wasn't that she craved the sanction of the law or the church – they hadn't done blazes for her in a very, very long time. But marriage… it meant something. To her, and apparently to him. It was a promise. It was a symbol, a ring she could look at and _know,_ right and proper, that they belonged to each other._

_It was never going to happen._

_But she could hope – if only for the night._

_She forced a smile, blinked back tears, and whispered, "I'm the one to say what makes me happy. Please love, give me that much at least."_

xxxx

Nellie awoke to see Nathan dressing, pulling on clothes rumpled from their place on the floor and only half dry from the previous evening's rain. Across the room, the fire flickered sporadically, a few determined flames jumping from a glowing bed of coal. The room was dark – the orange light fell far short of the bed, and the candle that had burned so bright – so passionately – on the chest of drawers beside them was little more than a solidifying pool of wax. Nathan's skin, and the whiteness of his shirt, burned like beacons in the near darkness.

She yawned, staring at his back, and lifted her hands over her head in a stretch.

She felt content, safe– and it was a strange sensation, a new concept, to be able to stare up at him without an overwhelming need to hold on to him lest he blow away into the wind. He was stable – a gentleman to the letter – and… and there was something vaguely unsettling about the notion of Nellie Lovett marrying a gentleman.

Marrying.

It wasn't that she regretted her decision. She imagined it was the smartest choice she'd made in a long time. But it was different, now that her head had stopped reeling and she had time to think.

Her joints creaked and she groaned, rolling her neck in an attempt to relieve a stubborn knot. Nathan turned at the noise.

Hair falling to his shoulders –_every bit as soft as it looked, clinging to the lines of his jaw, running through her fingers like silk – _pulling on his shirt, staring down at her, he looked like a knight out of the storybooks. He looked like a man who would lift her onto his horse and ride away into the sunset. A man who – very evidently – was willing to fight for honor, _her _honor, which was a bloody strange thought, and who fit in perfectly with the chivalry of his Glorious South… and was entirely enamored with her.

"Morning," she muttered, pulling the sheet further up her chest in a motion that was less about modesty and more about preserving warmth in a room she remembered to be anything but chilly only hours before.

"It's not quite morning yet," he said, in the drawl she'd come to find utterly charming. She couldn't see much more than his vague dark shape and the glitter of his eyes, but she imagined he was smiling down at her. His words sounded like a smile, at least.

"Where you off to in such a hurry, then?" she asked, rubbing her eyes. "Going to free all the servants before they decide to bring you breakfast and find me lying here?"

He smiled, and this time she saw a little light glint off his teeth. "I was going to fetch some clothes for you."

Her heart nearly skipped a beat. She doubted he'd intentionally open documents or read letters – but as carefully as she'd hidden them, he _would _be rooting around in her personal effects…

She forced a smile. "That seems a little rude, love, raiding a lady's wardrobe."

Nathan walked around the bed, occasionally tapping the mattress with his hand to guide him through the darkness. He crossed to Nellie's side of the bed and pulled open a drawer from the chest of drawers beside her. She heard him rummage for a new candle in the drawer, heard the hiss of a match, and managed to close her eyes before the flare of light seared her eyes out of her skull. She groaned and rolled her face into her pillow.

"Yes, well, it seemed the best alternative I had." The candle holder clinked against the chest of drawers when Nathan replaced the molten candle with the fresh one, and he sat on the side of the bed. The mattress tilted under his weight, and Nellie cracked open an eye and squinted against the light to look at him.

"Meaning what?"

He smiled at her and continued. "Meaning you might plan at some point to leave my chambers, and I imagine I'm far better at untying laces than trying to do them back up again-"

Nellie laughed, a state which was not helped by the quizzical expression on Nathan's face. She pulled herself – and the sheets – into a sitting position against the headboard. "Truthfully, love, you weren't particularly good at that, either. Took you a bloody age to get me out of that corset. Thought you'd never make it through. Though I must say you've improved with practice."

He smiled crookedly – and his slight blush looked almost orange in the candle light.

She smiled and reached out to put her hand over his. "Now about the clothes, love...don't worry yourself. There's no reason for you to go stomping around my wardrobe in the dead of night and throw everything all over the floor. I've got clothes here, and I know how to put them on, even if you don't."

"Really, it's no trouble -"

"My dear Captain Beaumont, if you want a token to remember me by, you have only to ask." Nellie smiles, tracing the back of his hand with her finger. She knows she's supposed to be good – be a proper, widowed English lady – but he's so beautiful when he's surprised. "I'm sure it would be no inconvenience to bring it by tomorrow night."

He lifts her hand to his lips with a jaunty smile that seems to shave years off his age and make her bones forget they've ever ached. His eyes burned. Her heart quickened. "That is a highly improper request, my dear." His voice grew slightly hoarse. "But I find I'm already having a hard time denying it."

"Do you want to deny it?"

He looked away, face stern, and sighed. "I want nothing of the sort, but…"

"It's alright, love. I understand. There are rules about these things."

"It's not that, exactly. But…" He glanced at the door and shook his head. "Well, to tell the truth, I can't exactly see the harm." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "No doubt the entire household knows by now."

Nellie caught his eye and grinned. "Yes, well, I suppose it's one thing to commit a sin – and entirely another once you get caught at it." She doubted he viewed things the same way, but he was no doubt lost in thought and the justification of her presence in his bed. She thought he might eventually question her boldness, so she decided to temper it a bit by asking quietly, "Do you regret what we're doing?"

He gazed at her for a long moment, ran the back of a finger slowly along her cheek. "I love you, Eleanor," he said. "And you're going to be my wife."

Her heart skipped a bit at that – whether from joy or anxiety she wasn't sure, and didn't have time to work out, because he leaned down, the candlelight shining in his eyes like the burning intensity of his devotion, and kissed her softly.

"What about Minerva?" she murmured against his lips.

He sat up to look at her, brows knit. "Minerva? What about her?"

Her hand moved to casually finger the collar of his shirt. "Do you think she knows about us?"

Nathan sighed. "I can't afford to care about that anymore."

"Well, if you're nervous about discretion," Nellie went on, "we could always go to Richmond."

"What?"

"Richmond. I have some letters to send to my uncle. And so do you, I imagine… especially a nice polite one asking for his favorite niece's hand in marriage." She had his attention. "Lord Braithwaite says he can get them past the blockade for us, and I thought if we could send all your wonderful ship building requests and such with the wedding proposal… well, I'm sure uncle would cut you a deal. I think he'd be thrilled with your…submersible boat. Don't you want him to see the plans?"

Nathan raised an eyebrow, his voice dry. "And you'd truly be happy with naval vessels as a wedding present?"

She shrugged. "But of course if we were sending your documents, we couldn't risk having them fall into enemy hands. So we can't courier them. And I couldn't take them myself, without an escort."

He shuffled slightly closer and watched her as she waited for his answer.

She gave an answer of her own with a quick kiss to his cheek. "They're so busy with this war of yours, we'd have total privacy."

He smiled. "We'll leave on Monday. Of course, we'll have to have separate rooms…"

"As long as there's a connecting door, darling."

His smile broadened. "I'll tell Minerva I've been regrettably called away on urgent war business."

Nellie gave him her most innocent look. "War is a terrible thing, love. I'm certain she'll understand."

Nathan pushed hair back from his face and rubbed his beard. "That does leave the problem of when to tell her, though. I mean, we can't just invite her to the wedding without any warning." He looked at Nellie, fought a smile, and shook his head. The action spilled hair into his face again. "No, we can't just not invite her."

"I'm sure there'll be plenty of time, love. I mean, she doesn't have to know right away. Maybe not for weeks, months even."

Nathan's brow furrowed. "How long do you expect this engagement to be?"

She paused, watching him carefully. "How long _will_ it be?"

"Well… I don't know exactly. But months before we tell Minerva? Surely not that long. This is war time, after all. Anything could happen."

She planned to marry the man, of course. Why else would she have agreed? But she imagined Her Majesty's Government and the powers that be would have something to say about it. And as good a position it would offer her espionage, she didn't particularly relish the thought of having to record wedding-night secrets to filter back to the British government. It went against her romantic sensibilities, at the very least.

And there was something else…another reason for her hesitation, her desire for a long engagement, that skittered around the dark shadows of her mind so she couldn't quite catch hold of it –

Nathan must have seen her face fall. "Surely that doesn't displease you."

"Displease isn't the right word, love. More like… surprise. I thought you'd at least want to wait for the war to be over. And I thought a long engagement would be more appropriate. I don't want you involved in a scandal because of a rushed wedding." She smoothed the sheets over her lap, making them cling to the curves of her legs and hips. "I wouldn't want to... distract you any further from the Cause."

Without hesitation, Nathan's hands followed hers up her body, until he gently cupped her chin and smiled at her. "Are all English women this forward, my dear?"

"Only when presented with barely-clothed Captains, I assure you."

He leaned forward, to place a deep kiss on her lips. She cupped the side of his face and he didn't flinch away. On the contrary, he pulled away smiling even more widely. "The war gives us more reason to hurry the engagement, Nellie." He was excited, betrayed by his eyes as they devoured her face. "Plus, it's a perfect business opportunity, as you suggested. The sooner we can contact your uncle…"

"Ah. So that's the reason behind all the rush, is it?"

Nathan stopped. The blood drained from his face, leaving it a blank canvas for the candle light and shadows. Solemnity stole over his expression, hardening his eyes into burning coals. "No."

She had been teasing him – but he had missed the joke.

"That's not true, Nellie. I hope you know that." His voice softened, but the intensity in his eyes never died. "I want to marry you because I love you, and I want to marry you fast because I find I've suddenly become a very impatient man when it comes to you. I can't bear to be away from you – to be separated from you by any law, of God or man. I want something… more… from you, Nellie."

Suddenly, and for the first time, she was frightened in his presence. Not a fear that he would harm her – she knew he'd harm himself first – but fear of the truth and depth of his love. For the first time, she stopped to wonder why she'd accepted his proposal, but she quickly fled from the question as she might flee from a loose wild beast.

She was startled to feel, for the first time, a knot around her heart for deceiving him.

But it was the espionage that was a deceit, not her love for him…surely…She'd do her job and afterwards he need never know the reason for her making his acquaintance in the first place. She could be happy, she could have everything she'd ever dreamed of…It couldn't be clearer that he wanted to make her happy…and he was a kind man, and she'd known so few of those…except the one, so many years ago…

It took a conscious effort to raise her voice above a whisper. "I think you had enough for one night, Captain."

He scowled, shadows deepening the lines of his face. "How can you say such a thing? Don't you know that I want everything from you, and that I swear I'll give you everything in return?" He trailed off, breaking eye contact, tightening his hands over his knees and creating creases in the cloth of his pants. "I want meaning, and recognition for all of this… and to call you my wife. Don't you want the same?"

She pulled him close and clutched at his shirt, fingers at the buttons, desperate to see the smooth, unmarred skin of his back and chest again, to run her fingers over it, needing to have him near her until the morning.

"Of course, love. Of course we can be married before the end of the war... just a few weeks of peace, love. No plans, no congratulations. Just us and a nice hotel in Richmond... just for a little. Our little secret."

She pulled his shirt from him, and he buried his hands in the tangle of her hair. He leaned down over her, trip to the wardrobe thoroughly forgotten. He was far more adept at removing sheets than petticoats.

"Our secret," he whispered into the crook of her neck.

* * *

**Please review! Thanks for reading - and for not giving up on this story!**


End file.
